


For the Life of Every Creature Is Its Blood

by Kaleran



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe- Javert Lives, Blood Kink, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Human/Vampire Relationship, Javert has OCD, Les Mis (2012)'s rosary, Light Masochism, M/M, Marius is also here but he has like minimal lines sorry, Post-Seine, Strength Kink, Valjean has anxiety, Vampires, Vampires have OCD, Waltzing, except I also kill thenarider, people who die in canon still die, vampire related sexual dysfunction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27639494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaleran/pseuds/Kaleran
Summary: At the barricades, Javert is revealed to be a vampire. Valjean prevents Javert from attempting to take his own life and from there the two of them enter an arrangement: Javert can no longer feed from criminals in good conscience, so Valjean willingly volunteers himself instead.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 64
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this for two or three actual irl years and it's just sad at this point that I still couldn't get it out before or on Halloween, so I'm posting it now. It's not quite done yet but I have like eight chapters, so hopefully that will push me to actually, y'know, finish the dang thing. It's been long enough I want it finished and posted!
> 
> Updates will be on Thursdays. If I don't update, kick my ass in the [Sewerchat discord server](https://discord.gg/W728Wqu4mT) (invite link! Come hang!). I will thank you.

"That spy is not human," the schoolboys tell him. "It is a vampire, come here to kill us all, weakening our forces."

The spy is Javert.

Valjean's first instinct is to run, not because of claims of vampirism, but because he is Javert. They have always been hunter and prey, however Valjean had never expected to have it be quite so literal.

It makes a certain degree of sense. It could explain why Javert always wears that heavy greatcoat even on the hottest summer days and constantly keeps his hat pulled low over his face when the sun is shining. When they had been in close proximity in Montreuil-sur-Mer, he recalls noticing that Javert's eyes would sometimes seem to be closer to the color of wine rather than simply a dark brown. How he had laughed at Fantine's bedside and had shown all his teeth and gums, and his canines were just a bit too long and oddly sharp. Valjean had thought then that Javert had werewolf ancestry but dismissed it immediately after. Javert does not tire around the full moon - in fact, he seemed most content when the moon hung round and bright in the sky- nor does he have wolf-yellow eyes. He thrives in the nighttime, recognizing Valjean instantly in pitch blackness. The hints were there, but it is only now that he can piece them together.

Even if Javert is a vampire, that is still no excuse for killing him. Javert has a red burn across one side of his face- holy water, he is told. A test. Needless, as it turned out, for Javert does not deny the schoolboys' accusations. His eyes flash deep red even in the bright room, staring at Valjean intently with a sneer when he enters the café. There is silver embedded in the cords that bind him, barely glinting in the lamplight, but it is enough to hold a vampire such as Javert. His throat is rubbed red and raw from struggling.

"Here is its grave dirt!" one of the schoolboys say, holding what looks to be a normal snuffbox in the air as proof. “It must sleep with it or it will weaken.”

Another snatches a rosary made of black jet from the table. It is familiar, and with a shock Valjean realizes it is the same one he gifted to Javert at his factory all those years ago, the jet flawed.

"Why would a vampire carry a rosary?" the schoolboys mutter amongst themselves, passing it around. When it comes to Valjean, he pockets it discreetly. It is not missed, not when a snuffbox full of grave dirt lays open on the table to be poked and prodded at.

"Let me take care of the spy," Valjean hears himself say. Javert stares at him with hatred and Valjean stares back, appearing unfazed even as his very human heart hammers wildly in his chest. The rosary in his pocket digs into his clenched fist. He wonders if Javert is hypnotizing him because he cannot seem to tear his eyes away. Someone hands him a silver knife and Javert is thrust into his care with force.

"Take it to the alley- we do not want that thing here with our dead," the leader says, disgust and hatred on his face.

He goes with Javert in front of him, slowly to account for the cords that bind him. He resists just barely, his shoulders twitching whenever Valjean lays a hand on him. Valjean had expected Javert to fight him every strop of the way, spitting venom. It is unlike him to be so still and pliant. Like walking death.

The alley is dark and cool, the sounds of battle faint. Despite what the schoolboys think, he will not kill Javert. Javert would not kill his prey. They have come to know each other over the years, in a way, and there is no chance that he would break the law and his own strict moral code by committing murder. Javert may not be human, but he is not evil. Even if he were, Valjean could never take a life in cold blood, vampire or not.

"You are going to kill me then?" Javert asks once they stop. He grins, showing his teeth, and it is ugly. The burn on his face is already healing, now turning pink around the edges. Valjean is not entirely sure of all the particulars of the supernatural, vampires included, but Javert must heal faster than humans. Suddenly Valjean understands how he can afford to be so reckless in his police work.

"I can hear your heart racing like a horse. Excited at the prospect of killing me yourself, are you?" He laughs, and that too is ugly. His teeth- no, his fangs are longer than Valjean has ever seen them and his lips curl back in a terrifying snarl. "Go on, then! Kill me!"

Valjean raises the knife to Javert's throat.

"You are going about killing me all wrong," Javert says, a rough, manic laugh in his voice. "The knife is too small to cut off my head. It must go through the heart if you want me to die and stay dead. Even you must know that!"

Valjean cuts the rope, the thin silver wire splintering under the sharp edge of the knife.

Javert is silent, the smile gone from his face, instead simply staring at Valjean. The knife saws through the rope holding Javert's wrists together and that too falls to the ground. His wrists are red as well- although whether from the silver or from struggling, Valjean cannot tell. He steps away, the knife back in his belt.

"You are free," he says. "Leave this place. They will only want you dead."

Javert looks at his freed hands, then clenches them into fists. When he looks up, he fixes Valjean with a glare and Valjean is paralyzed. His eyes are almost glowing in the dark, the red in them unmistakable.

"You should have killed me," he snarls. "You were _supposed to kill me_."

Valjean has never seen an angry vampire before this night. The sight is terrifying. Javert is baring his teeth, his lips pulled back over his gums and his fangs extended such that they curve over his bottom teeth completely. Valjean cannot move even if he wished to, quite literally held in place by Javert's glare. Hypnotism, this time truly. He wonders faintly if Javert will force him to kill, if such a thing is even possible.

Javert slams him against the alley wall, his grip on Valjean's shoulders crushing. It will certainly leave bruises, but Valjean hardly feels it. He can hardly breathe, his heart hammering in his chest erratically. He has never been so terrified. Even revealing himself at Arras was not as terrifying as having the fangs of a vampire inches away from his face.

"You are a thief and always will be a thief! What deal are you trying to strike? You trade your human life for my damned one- what are you playing at?" His fingers dig into Valjean's shoulders further, feeling like claws; although Valjean is nearly certain vampires do not have powers of transformation like werewolves when the moon is full or the forest-dwelling shape-changers. Javert blinks, the red fading from his eyes for a second, and Valjean can move again.

"There is n-no deal," he manages to say through his fear. His voice shakes. "Y-you are free to go. I hold you blameless."

Javert recoils from him as if Valjean were silver. Valjean winces, leaning heavily against the wall.

"If you let me live, I will still come after you. You are still a criminal and I am still a policeman." His voice is harsh against the smooth stones of the alley. "This changes _nothing_." He looks at Valjean, eyes red and wild, daring him to barter.

Valjean's heart has barely started to slow, his breath still coming in great lungfuls. He is tired of this conversation. He is tired of running. If he is successful tonight, Cosette will have Marius to support her. He would only be a burden to her. Once she discovers he is an ex-convict, she will think him revolting. He will leave her before that happens, of course. Seeing disgust on Cosette's face when she looks at him instead of love would strike a blow that Valjean is not sure he would be able to survive. If he surrenders now, the chase will be over at last and he will have no further reason to hide.

He is so very tired of hiding.

"If you have need of me, you may find me under the name of Fauchelevent at number 55, Rue Plumet, if I am to live past tonight." It is almost a relief to give and tell Javert his address. "Your rosary."

He holds it out in front of him, palm upwards in a gesture of goodwill. The dark beads glint faintly in the gloom of the alley. Javert eyes it with suspicion, then snatches it with supernatural speed. It is gone in his pocket before Valjean can blink.

"I have been away for too long,” Valjean says. “They will be suspicious. Go."

Javert says nothing, only staring at him in the dim with red eyes. Then, "They took my snuffbox from me. I… _require_ it." The words are growled out as if they themselves did not wish to be said.

Valjean nods once, feeling as if he is signing over his life with this agreement. "I will retrieve it for you."

A part of him wonders why he is helping Javert at all when it would be so easy to let him suffer. Then, he remembers the bishop and reprimands himself for thinking so selfishly. Javert keeps a rosary, so he too must pray to God even though he is a damned creature. It is unfair how one's nature should automatically mean he is damned. Valjean did not think that God would allow such things, so surely even a vampire must be able to reach Heaven through prayer and good deeds.

Javert steps away slowly, almost fading into the shadows.

"This changes nothing, Valjean," he repeats. " _Nothing_."

"Go," Valjean tells him, and then Javert is gone around the corner, another shadow among many. He stands in the alley for a few seconds more, staring blankly after him.

Silence welcomes him upon reentering the café.

“It is done,” he says.

The schoolboys congratulate him, some with awe and others with fear. Killing a vampire is no easy task, even if it is bound. Valjean thinks of how close Javert's fangs were to his face and how his fingertips had dug into his shoulders and shivers. They do not notice that the knife is clean and unused, nor how he slips the snuffbox into his pocket when most of them sleep in the night.

He does not shoot a single bullet the next day. The schoolboys die in vain and he manages to escape with Marius over his shoulder and trudges through the sewer for hours to freedom. Thénardier is there in the sewers as well, robbing corpses of their valuables with his wolf-yellow eyes glowing in the dark, but Valjean cannot quite bring himself to care that he is recognized. He will be arrested either way.

The dirty waters of the Seine are a welcome relief compared to sewer muck. He rests, exhausted, looking up at the stars and prays to God for the strength to finish his journey. Marius's address is discovered in his pocketbook, luckily, however Valjean highly doubts he will be able to hail a fiacre at this hour, considering the uprising. Most people are asleep in their beds with the latch over the door. He does not relish the idea of walking halfway across Paris with Marius's unconscious body over his shoulder.

A shadow falls over him and he looks up. The figure is tall, wearing a large coat and holding an iron tipped cane. It can only be Javert.

"Who are you?" Javert asks in a growl.

"Do you not recognize me?" Valjean asks, a quick bitter smile flashing over his face. "After all these years, you should."

"Jean Valjean."

"Yes."

Javert only stares at him, unmoving.

"I have your snuffbox," Valjean says, taking it from his pocket, offering it freely. He had taken care to keep the worst of the sewer muck off of it.

This time, Javert hesitates before accepting it.

"I am in your debt," says Javert, staring at the box in his hand. He sounds odd, like he is not quite sure if the meaning of the words coming from his mouth.

"You owe me nothing."

"I cannot allow a debt to go unpaid," Javert insists in what is practically a growl.

Valjean looks down at Marius. Surely the time in the sewers had not been good for his wounds. He needs a doctor immediately.

"Then I ask of you one thing,” Valjean says. “Before you dispose of me, take this boy home to his family. I have his address here." He retrieves Marius's pocketbook.

Javert observes the boy, ignoring the pocketbook. "He was at the barricades. The one they called Marius." He kneels besides Marius's unconscious body.

"He is wounded," explains Valjean.

"He will die," Javert states. "His heartbeat is slow and his wounds are probably infected. I cannot tell through the smell of sewage." He stands, nose wrinkling in distaste, having not touched Marius once. Valjean notes he does not say no outright.

"Please," Valjean asks. "I am your prisoner either way. If you wish to pay back a debt, then deliver him to his grandfather’s home."

It is too dark to make out Javert's expression. Only his eyes are visible, the starlight reflecting off them faintly in silver flecks. He takes the pocketbook.

"Coachman!" he calls at last, turning and expecting Valjean to simply follow.

To say the ride is awkward would be an understatement of the situation. Valjean is exhausted enough to simply be grateful that Javert would allow him this. Javert's hands are in tight fists on his thighs and occasionally his eyes dart to the blood trickling from Marius's forehead.

"Does it bother you?" Valjean asks at last. "The blood."

"It is not any concern of yours!" Javert snaps at him. Valjean flinches and does not ask again. They do not speak for the rest of the ride.

They cause quite a stir at Monsieur Gillenormand's home, especially when Javert proclaimed Marius to be as good as dead. A doctor is sent for and Valjean almost follows the servants carrying Marius's body up the stairs before he is stopped by Javert's hand. He had almost forgotten. Javert somehow managed to blend in with the shadows near the edges of the room, only emerging to remind Valjean what he had agreed to.

"Inspector," Valjean begins once they have once again climbed into the carriage, "may I ask you for one more favor?"

"What is it?" Javert asks roughly.

"I have unfinished business at my house. May I be allowed to return there before you arrest me? It will only take a moment." He does not want Cosette to worry, nor to be without some means of living. He will write her a short letter, glossing over the truth but informing her that Marius lives, for Valjean prays that is true, and where to find the rest of the money he had hidden all those years ago. She should not be without a dowry.

Javert is quiet, his face half hidden by the high collar of his coat. After a moment, he calls out Valjean's address to the driver and they are off again. They do not speak on this ride either. Javert looks to be made of stone, his skin made pale by the moonlight coming in through the window. Valjean carefully does not look at him. The fact that Javert is, apparently, a vampire should terrify him, however he finds that it does not. Perhaps because Javert had already embodied all Valjean had feared to begin with such that it is impossible to be more afraid of him. They have known each other a long time, long enough that Valjean has no doubt that Javert is not the type of vampire to attack people in a frenzied bloodlust like those who are reported in the newspaper like some sort of penny dreadful.

The fiacre comes to a stop and Javert pays the driver before Valjean can even think to offer. It is of no matter. Soon, he is to be arrested and his money taken from him. It does not strike him as strange that Javert has sent the fiacre on its way instead of making it wait for him to be done with this errand.

Javert stops at the gate stiffly, arms crossed over his chest.

"I will wait for you here," says Javert. There is something about how he delivers the words that gives Valjean pause, but he dismisses it. He is tired. Surely, he is only hearing things.

"I will not be long," Valjean tells him, then enters the building and heads up to his apartment.

He changes his clothes first, running a wet cloth over his face in an effort to wash away the worst of the grime. There is no reason not to be somewhat comfortable when he is arrested. Then, he writes to Cosette. It takes longer than he anticipated; the words slow to come to him. He does not tell her everything. How could he? The thought of his dearest Cosette hating him hurts more than he can bear.

He blots the ink, and as he does so glances out of the window. Javert is nowhere to be seen.

At first Valjean is relieved. Javert has released him and he is free of him at last. He will not be forced to tell Cosette of his past and she will still love him as much as she always has. It is a miracle.

He takes a moment to think and he doubts. Javert is not one to give up the chase so easily. Perhaps he has gone to gather additional officers for his arrest? Valjean had agreed to be arrested and never planned on being anything other than cooperative. Javert is a vampire and had displayed strength enough to easily overcome Valjean’s. There is no need for anyone else.

' _I will wait for you here_ ,' Javert had said in that strange tone. Valjean had never heard Javert lie before as he has never been anything other than painfully honest. It must have been a lie, for Javert is no longer here.

He could take this opportunity and run again, the chase continuing, or, he could venture out again and find Javert to turn himself in. The idea of prison for life does not appeal to him, but he had promised Javert and he is done with running. His life here in Paris is nearly at a close. The letter to Cosette will explain his absence. He leaves it on his desk and dons a coat that is not covered in sewage. Then he leaves, praying he has made the correct decision.

There is not a soul on the streets, no doubt due to the rebellion. It is approaching one in the morning, wisps of fog curling about the street and catching in the trees. Valjean is strangely calm as he walks towards arrest. There is peace to be had in surrendering after so many years of running. He savors the solitude he finds in the empty streets, looking up at the stars in a way he knows he will not be able to for the rest of his life without having it be through small barred windows. There is no solitude in prison.

He crosses the Pont-au-Change, almost missing the figure standing with its hands on the parapet, so engrossed is he in his thoughts. It is only the glint of some shiny object that catches his attention. The man is tall, wearing a long coat, and his hat rests on the parapet in front of him alongside a heavy cane. He is familiar. The flash was a metal flask that is being turned in one hand almost absently.

"Javert?" he calls, startled. He did not expect Javert to be here, of all places.

Javert makes no indication that he has heard him.

"Inspector?" he asks again, making his way to him. Still, Javert does not respond. It is only when Valjean is close enough to touch him that Javert acknowledges his presence.

"You should not be here," he says in an irritated growl. He does not turn to look at Valjean, instead staring at the river below them.

"You did not wait for me, as you said. I was coming to find you to turn myself in."

"I will not arrest you," Javert tells him, and Valjean knows that this is not a lie. "You are free. Now leave me."

Whatever he had expected Javert to say, it was not that. He can hardly comprehend it, especially when the words come from the man who spent so many years chasing him. He stares at Javert in shocked silence.

"Are you deaf, Valjean? I told you to leave." He turns to Valjean with a snarl on his face. Valjean cannot help but step back and glance away, too reminded of how Javert's fangs looked when inches away from his face. It is then that he notices the rosary wrapped tightly around Javert's bare wrist and the holy cross on the flask in his hand. Why would Javert have holy water? What use would it be to him if it burns him?

A suspicion starts forming in his mind. Valjean does not know all the ways to kill a vampire but he has heard rumors of crosses and sunlight and running water. It is difficult to tell in the darkness, but Javert's face looks paler than normal. Something must be affecting him. If Javert were to drink the holy water in the flask or tip himself into the river, he did not know what would happen.

"Inspector," he begins slowly, "what are you doing?"

Javert turns away from him suddenly, almost a flinch. He smiles as he looks down into the black waters of the Seine. Like before, it is ugly. There is something bitter about it.

"It is not your concern," he says in a low voice. "Go home, Valjean."

"I cannot," Valjean says, now almost certain of his suspicion. If Javert is going to try and kill himself, Valjean cannot stand by and do nothing. Like in the alley, he cannot let Javert die. Javert is a good man, regardless of his vampirism and how he had hunted Valjean through the years.

"Leave me," Javert says again.

"What is in the flask?"

Javert freezes and Valjean knows he is correct.

"It is not your concern." His voice is hard, but it wavers.

"May I see?"

"No."

"Please, Inspector—"

"Do you think you can save me?" Javert interrupts, snarling once more. "I cannot be saved! Leave me to my fate."

"I cannot do that. Everyone can be saved." If there was anything the Bishop had taught him all those years ago, it was that.

Javert laughs. The sound is harsh and inhuman.

"I was born a vampire, Valjean, and I will die a vampire. My mere existence defies God and I will spend eternity in Hell because of it." He laughs again and Valjean can hear the manic note in the sound. "I cannot be saved!"

"That is not any fault of yours. You did not choose this. Surely God will forgive you for that." Valjean cannot help but believe despite what the church preached. "Have you ever willingly tried to infect others? Have you ever willingly killed anyone, disregarding any deaths you may have caused in your capacity as a policeman?"

Javert is silent. Valjean waits patiently.

"No," Javert eventually answers. The word is ground out, as if he is unwilling to admit it.

"Then God will forgive you."

Javert falls silent again, his hand gripping the flask in a tight grip. The color continues to slowly leech from his face and Valjean's eyes dart to the rosary that is still wrapped around his wrist. It must be draining Javert of his strength. It is unclear how long Javert can withstand its effects and Valjean does not know if it could eventually kill him. How long has it been wrapped around his skin like that?

"I have wronged you and countless others," Javert said after long moments. "If nothing else, I am damned to Hell for that."

"You were only doing your duty; I do not blame you." It had not been Javert himself who Valjean had feared all those years; it is what Javert represented. Javert is the law personified. Valjean cannot hold that against him.

"What I have done to you is not just. You have--" He grips his flask tighter and the rosary swings on his wrist, clinking against the metal. "You have proven me wrong. You have changed when I did not think it possible. The law says I must arrest you, yet I cannot because you are not the same man. How many others have changed as you have? How many others have I wrongfully arrested? I have lived my life by the law; I cannot break it by letting you go free. Thus, I must end myself. Even if my nature was not what it is, I still belong in Hell."

"I have wronged many," says Valjean. His sister and her children whose faces he cannot remember. Fantine, her labored breaths as he lied to her face about bringing her child to her. Cosette, and all the things he has kept from her. The people he had employed at his factory, surely put out onto the streets when he had left and his factory had closed. "Do I deserve Hell?"

"You saved my life, even when I have been nothing but cruel to you," Javert responds. "How can you not be a good man?"

It is a strange thing to hear those words from Javert's lips. He is wrong, of course, but Valjean did not think that arguing with him would convince Javert to step away from the edge.

"Do you plan to jump?" he asks, joining Javert in looking down at the river. Their shoulders nearly brush. The Seine is so black that not even the stars are reflected in it.

"I plan to fall,” Javert answers. “It would be preferable to what the city would do with my body. I have spent over a century hiding my nature. If I were subject to the silver guillotine and my body burned publicly, as is according to the law, then all of my work will have gone to waste.”

They stand for a minute, side by side, looking down at the water. Javert's hands have started to tremble and he is using the parapet to hold himself upright.

"Give me the flask, Javert," he asks again softly.

Javert smiles. It is nearly a snarl. "No."

"Please."

"You cannot save me, Valjean. No one can. Cease trying."

"You have done good in your life. You have pulled murderers off the streets and have made the city safer for the citizens that live here. If you have spent years tracking me down, I cannot imagine how many dangerous people you have arrested."

"I have doubts. If the law is wrong, then how can I be certain that what I am doing is right? Not all of us are capable of being _saints_ like you." He spits the word and it is noticeably weaker than before.

"I am no saint." How could he be? The scars on his wrists and the brand on his chest say otherwise. "You of all people should know that."

"You are trying to save a vampire; a creature whose very nature prevents such a thing. If you had any sense, you would have run from me by now and let me be."

"Then it is a good thing I am lacking sense."

Javert's head falls, his hair obscuring his face.

"You are incredibly stubborn,” Javert mutters.

Valjean cannot help but think the same of Javert. He had chased him for years without giving up. Should he really be so surprised that Javert is stubborn in this as well?

"Will you give me the flask?" If Javert would not give it up willingly then Valjean would have to use force. Javert is so weak now that he is sure he could overpower him easily.

"I will not. If you will not leave me, then you shall be my witness." He starts unscrewing the flask with shaking fingers. Valjean stops him with a hand. Javert's fingers are chilled, but still warmer than Valjean had been expecting them to be given his inhuman nature.

"Let go of me!" Javert snarls. It is forced and breathy.

"I cannot allow you to do this."

Javert's hold on the flask is surprisingly firm despite the way he shakes with the effort of standing and how all the color has drained from his face. It is as if only his stubbornness and his anger are holding him upright.

"You will release me!" he commands, and even that sounds more like a plea.

"I will not."

Javert twists his lips in a feral snarl at him, attempting to pull himself away from Valjean's grasp. The move is unexpected. The flask tips and liquid splashes over their hands. It falls harmlessly on Valjean's skin but leaves a burn on Javert's as if it were acid. Javert flinches back and in doing so releases the flask. It tumbles over the edge, disappearing into the black water.

"What have you done?" Javert demands, turning on him with eyes flashing red.

"I am forcing you to live, Javert!" Valjean shouts. "Despite your nature and your circumstances, you are a good man. You are incorruptible, which is more than could be said of others of your profession." He takes a breath and continues in a calmer voice. "You can learn mercy and use your position for good. I am sure your abilities are an asset rather than a burden when making arrests. It is never too late to change."

Javert glares at him silently. Then, without warning, his legs buckle beneath him and Valjean finds himself catching him before he can hurt himself further or follow his flask into the river below. He lowers them both to the ground, then takes Javert’s wrist in hand and untangles the rosary from it. It leaves a dark pattern behind, the beads searing themselves into the skin after touching him for so long. Javert protests weakly, refusing to keep still.

"I will not have your death on my conscience," he tells Javert sternly. "I told you I hold you blameless. It is the truth."

He succeeds in removing the rosary and tucks it in his own pocket for safekeeping. Javert makes no motion to stand or even take it back. Valjean stays sitting as well. He is exhausted. They are both exhausted.

"I have never known mercy," Javert says quietly. "I do not know what to do with it."

"I cannot tell you. It is something you must do on your own."

They do not speak for many minutes, backs against the stone parapet and the roar of the Seine below them filling the silence. Valjean had never imagined that he would be sitting side by side with Javert in silence, educating him on what it means to be merciful. Then again, he had never guessed that Javert was a vampire. Javert had chased him for nineteen years, but they do not truly know each other.

"Are you recovered?" Valjean asks after a time.

"I can stand on my own, if that is what you mean," Javert answers. "I would rather face oblivion."

"It is a start."

Neither of them move.

"Why are you helping me?” Javert asks suddenly. “If I deserve kindness, I certainly do not deserve it from you."

"It is not about whether you deserve it or not. You need it, and I cannot allow a man to die if I could somehow prevent it."

Javert is silent for a moment. Then, "I must think on this."

"Take however long you need," says Valjean. They stand at last and Javert stares at him like he is just seeing him for the first time.

"You have my rosary," he says, holding his hand out.

"If you want it back, then you will have to visit me when you are ready," Valjean says. If he gave it back now, he could not be certain that Javert would not try again.

Javert narrows his eyes but does not argue.

"Goodnight, Inspector," he says.

Javert bows, then places his hat upon his head once more and takes up his cane. He does not say anything more.

Valjean watches him for long moments before turning around himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Valjean sleeps through most of the next day, only just remembering to hide the letter he wrote to Cosette. She is ecstatic to find they are staying in Paris after all and he forces his face into a smile for her. Marius will live and steal her away. Even now she is slipping from his hold, soon to no longer need her dear Papa.

He spends the day burning the clothes he wore through the sewers and bathing himself thoroughly to rid himself of the smell. Javert does not come to the gate, although Valjean looks out through the window frequently to check. He does not know why he is so eager for Javert to come for his rosary. It would only indicate Javert has recovered himself enough to arrest Valjean. He will have come to his senses by now.

For the next week he checks the gate so often Cosette comments on it, but Javert does not appear. Valjean reads through the obituaries every morning but there is nothing to indicate Javert would even be listed if he were to be found dead. Vampires are not well liked in Paris. Magic is illegal, from harmless hex bags to ward away sickness to books of curses written in blood. Creatures are included, with no exceptions. Even the flocks of gargoyles flitting between the spires of Notre Dame at night are not exempt.

It is nearly two weeks after the uprising when Valjean returns home from a walk to see Javert at his gate. His hat is drawn low over his face and his high collar hiding most of his sideburns. Given his condition, he cannot possibly be comfortable in the hot sun. There are reasons why the vampire covens of Paris live in the catacombs.

“Inspector,” he says, touching the brim of his hat. “Please, come inside.”

“That would be preferable than the damned sunlight,” Javert answers shortly.

Cosette is in the garden but could feasibly choose any time to return, so Valjean leads Javert to the kitchen where she is unlikely to search. Javert declines the offered tea and biscuits, leaving Valjean wondering if he eats at all, and refuses to remove his hat and cloak.

Valjean presents his wrists without a word.

“What are you doing?” Javert asks.

“Allowing you to arrest me,” Valjean answers simply.

“I am not here for that; you are free. Did you not hear me the first time?”

Valjean lowers his wrists, confused. “Then why are you here?”

“My rosary, Valjean,” Javert growls. “You have my rosary.”

“I thought you may wish to speak about it,” Valjean says.

“I have thought about it and I have only concluded you should not have found me that night. It would have been better for the both of us if I had perished.”

“I do not believe that,” Valjean starts. “You are—"

Javert abruptly removes his hat, nearly crumpling the brim in his tight grip, and Valjean gives a sharp inhale of breath as he finally sees his face clearly. It is ashen, nearly as bloodless as the night of the bridge, and deep circles of sleeplessness underline his eyes. His eyes are what catch Valjean’s attention. Instead of their normal dark hue, they are quite obviously more red than brown and nearly wild with a barely controlled fury.

“I would rather die by my own hand than let my cursed nature consume me,” Javert snarls. With his lips pulled back, his elongated fangs are once again noticeable. “I cannot work, I cannot sleep, I cannot let myself relax for a single moment without risking innocent lives! Do you understand now, Valjean? This is why I must be put down like a rabid dog! I endanger lives by merely existing!”

“What is the problem?” Valjean asks, already forming his own suspicions.

Javert grins. It is terrible. His fangs shine. “Did you not think of what a monster such as myself must feed on? You offer me tea and biscuits and useless human things when that is not what I am starving for. Now, because of you, because of your damned _mercy_ ,” he spits the word like it leaves a foul taste in his mouth, “I can no longer feed. You have torn the blinders from my eyes. A vampire cannot starve to death; the curse will take control before I can die of hunger. I will lose myself in bloodlust. I will kill. I will have no control until my hunger is satiated.”

Valjean swallows, unable to take his eyes from Javert’s. He has seen such wildness before, but always in humans, in convicts well-used to the lash and the chain. Once, he had seen it in his own reflection.

“You used criminals, yes?” Valjean asks, trying to ignore the fear turning to nausea in his stomach. He is assuming. Javert would not pick simply anyone to feed from. “Why can you not continue?”

Javert laughs, the sound harsh, and the light shines off his fangs unnervingly. “I cannot continue because of you. I have done research; not all criminals break the law to upset society. They have the potential to change. They are like you. I cannot risk it.”

“You say there are no murderers in your cells? That there is no one criminal enough for you?” He does not think about what Javert means by, _‘like you’_.

“Murderers are far less common than the papers have you believe,” Javert says, waving a hand dismissively. “If a woman murders her husband in self-defense because he was beating her, does that make her less deserving of life?”

“No, of course not, but I cannot see you killing another like that, not even a criminal.”

“You are correct, but I am still stealing from her when she still has the right to live fully. I cannot take from those who are still deserving of it.”

Valjean falls quiet. Javert should not have to die when he has saved so many lives through his work and could continue to do so. His dedication to only feed from those who have wronged the order of things is admirable, but he will starve if he continues this way. Surely animal blood will not do or Javert would not be turning to criminals in the first place. Valjean looks at his own wrists where the cuff has ridden up enough to expose the scars underneath. Perhaps, if Javert will not arrest him, Valjean can pay his penance in blood.

“What if,” Valjean starts hesitantly, eyes never leaving his wrists and his heartbeat loud in his ears, “someone were to allow you to... feed on them. A donor, if you will.”

Javert snorts dismissively. “You will never find such a person.”

“Someone with a criminal background, who escaped irons several times,” Valjean presses on. He can feel Javert’s stare and struggles not to fidget under the weight of it. “Someone who has deceived you more than once.”

“No,” Javert growls.

“But—"

“I will not use you!” Javert snaps with finality. His arms are crossed tightly across his chest, fingers digging into his own arms. “You do not know what you are offering.”

“I am offering you survival.”

“No,” Javert repeats sternly. He pulls on his hat with sharp motions. “If you will not return my rosary, then I will leave you be.” He stalks towards the door, greatcoat flaring behind him.

“Inspector,” Valjean calls after him.

Javert stops, his hand on the door handle, but does not turn.

“If you return, I am known as Ultime Fauchelevent. You are always welcome here.”

Javert snorts at the name, then is off into the streets once more.

.

Valjean worries for the next week. Javert is being reckless if he refuses to feed and, if what he said is true, then it is not only his life that is in danger. He did not look well, and it can only be getting worse if he continues to fast. Innocents will be harmed and Javert will undoubtedly be discovered and put to death, destroying the one person who knows Valjean’s entire history. It is selfish to worry for Javert before the people he could potentially harm, but he cannot stop himself. Javert is a good man.

Cosette has gained permission to visit Marius, who is still recovering from infection, and she visits him every other day. Valjean watches on with an aching heart. It is a suitable distraction. Cosette does not shy away from Marius’s injuries and has convinced the doctor into teaching her how to change his bandages. In another life, she would be a fine nurse.

The next time he sees Javert, it is very late, far later than Valjean would expect visitors. Valjean has just prepared for bed when he hears the door open without even a knock and turns to see Javert standing in his antechamber. Somehow, he looks even more terrible than before. His skin is grey like a corpse, hair limp and tangled around his face, eyes red and vibrant. He is leaning on his cane as if he will topple over without it. His greatcoat, usually fitting and intimidating on him, hangs on his shoulders like a large, limp blanket.

“Inspector?” Valjean asks, startled.

“I would not be here if I had any other choice,” Javert growls. His voice is harsh. “I cannot continue without risking the safety of others. I need—" He tilts suddenly and Valjean rushes to catch him before he hits the floor.

“Come,” Valjean urges, glancing towards where Cosette lies sleeping at this hour. “My room would be more suitable.”

“I need my rosary, Valjean,” Javert finishes in a distracted mutter. His eyes are fixated on Valjean’s neck. They shine red in the dark.

“You have starved yourself,” Valjean chastises quietly, pulling Javert to his bedroom and sitting him down on his bed. “You should have accepted when I offered.” He closes the door and turns back to the vampire in his rooms.

“If you are no longer volunteering yourself and will not give me my blasted rosary, then I should not be here.” Javert makes to stand despite the fact his hands are shaking and his cane was left in the antechamber.

“I did not say I am no longer offering,” Valjean says, forcing Javert to stay sitting with a hand to his shoulder. Javert makes no indication he has noticed that he too is shaking.

“You are afraid. I can smell it,” Javert says. “That is good.”

“Why is that desirable?” Valjean asks warily, staying firm to his decision despite every instinct screaming at him to run.

“It means you have sense after all.”

Javert does not give a warning. In a moment, his hands are fisted in Valjean’s nightshirt and he is standing again with his lips grazing Valjean’s jugular. Valjean jerks back in surprise, stumbling until he is flat against the wall with Javert pressing against his front with a strength even Valjean cannot hope to contest. He said he was willing, and so he will be even as his breath comes shallow and fast and his heart makes every attempt to escape his chest. Trapped, he can do nothing as Javert’s fangs piece his flesh with a flash of pain save for keep himself still and pray to God that Javert is collected enough not to kill him. Warmth trickles down his neck and down past the neckline of his nightshirt. It is ignored in favor of the wound itself. Valjean squeezes his eyes shut and prays.

He does not know how long he stands trapped in his own bedroom with his heart hammering in his chest and a vampire sucking the blood from his veins. It feels like hours, even years. Javert is entirely silent save for his breath. When Valjean start to become lightheaded, he tugs on Javert’s wrists to alert him, to do something to preserve himself, to take control of the situation. Javert does not respond.

“Javert,” he tries to say. The word comes out as a stuttering, panicked plea. “I-Inspector—"

Javert jolts, as if just coming to awareness. He releases his tight hold on Valjean’s nightshirt and places his hands on his shoulders instead, firm but controlled. Valjean takes several shuddering breaths. Javert stops actively pulling the blood from his veins and licks the wound several times, a very odd feeling indeed that begins to numb the pain and sends another shudder through him, then steps away.

Valjean nearly collapses without Javert to hold him up, his vision darkening at the edges and his sense of balance tilting violently.

“You foolish idiot,” Javert hisses, assisting him to his bed immediately with rough hands. Valjean flinches away from his touch to no avail. “I could have killed you!”

Would that have been so terrible? To give his life so Javert may live for a few more months? After Cosette is married, he will no longer have purpose. It would be preferable to prison. Anything is preferable to prison.

“You should not have given me permission to come here,” Javert continues in a harsh growl. “If you had not told me I was welcome then I could not have reached you in the first place.”

Javert is scowling at him, but already his face looks less pale and his eyes are once again dark. The blood lingering on his lips and the dark stain on his cravat are ignored. There is silence between them as Valjean’s heart settles into a normal rhythm and he sternly reminds himself the kind of man Javert is.

“You look better,” Valjean says after several moments, thoughts still swimming with dizziness. “I do not regret it.”

Javert’s nostrils flare and he breaks eye contact. “You should stay in bed tomorrow. I took too much; far more than I should have.” He eyes Valjean’s neck critically. “The wound will be healed by morning, tomorrow afternoon at the latest, but the bloodstains on your nightshirt will not. I apologize. Usually I am not so...” He scowls.

“Hungry?” Valjean suggests quietly.

Javert crosses his arms and ignores him. “Careless,” he finishes. “I was not in control.”

That had been obvious. Even if Javert’s eyes had not been a frenzied red Valjean would have guessed he was inhuman.

“You may wish to fix your cravat,” Valjean points out.

Javert looks down and mutters a curse. He walks to the window to retie his cravat using the reflection and flatten his hair to resemble something approximating normal.

“I have a mirror,” Valjean offers.

“It is of no use unless it is backed by something other than silver. I will be invisible in it,” he says. “The window is fine.”

Valjean absently cleans the blood from his skin with a clean section of his nightshirt. It is ruined anyway. He will change after Javert leaves and hide the evidence tomorrow. He stares unseeingly at the red stains it leaves on his fingertips regardless of his efforts to confine it to the shirt.

“I should not have come here,” Javert mutters again, turning away from the window, stain successfully hidden.

“What else would you have done?” Valjean asks, looking away from his hand.

Javert is silent. It is easy enough to picture the possibilities.

“I will not return your rosary tonight,” Valjean says.

“I will need it eventually,” Javert mutters. “Fine. I will return another time. Rest tomorrow, feign illness if you must.”

“I will be—"

“I will not have you overexert yourself because I could not control myself,” Javert interrupts sharply. “You should not trust me so much.”

“You have never given me reason not to.”

Javert narrows his eyes, then leaves without another word and shutting Valjean’s door behind him.

“Goodnight, Inspector,” Valjean says to the empty room.

Soon after, the sound of the front door closing echoes through the silent house.

.

He fakes a sudden but harmless illness the next morning to appease Cosette as she immediately remarks on his pale and drawn features. It is fortunate that whatever Javert did indeed healed the wound overnight or she would have connected the pieces instantly. She dotes on him, bringing him as many little fruits as he can eat and even reads aloud to him in the garden although he is perfectly capable of holding a book himself. If he closes his eyes and lets her words wash over him, he can almost imagine she will stay by his side forever. It is the most enjoyable day he can remember in recent years.

The day after he is feeling much better in body, but less so in spirit. Cosette speaks of nothing but Marius. His fever is broken, she reports, and it is certain he will live. Valjean manipulates his mouth into a smile that pleases her, and his heart grows tight and hard in preparation for shattering.

Javert returns in a week, lingering at the gate until Valjean walks out to meet him. Facing Javert is getting easier, strangely, but he still must take a few breaths to calm himself before he opens the door to suppress the instinctual fear.

“You are welcome to come in, Inspector,” Valjean says.

Javert glares at him, as if attempting to lecture him silently on the errors of inviting a creature of darkness into his home again.

“You have something of mine,” Javert says.

“Come, let us speak inside. Cosette is out with Toussaint today.”

“I am aware,” Javert says flatly. He follows Valjean inside without further prompting.

This time, Javert does remove his hat and coat and even accepts Valjean’s offer of tea. He scowls at Valjean’s surprised expression.

“Did you think I subsist on blood alone?” he asks incredulously.

Valjean flushes. “I am afraid I do not know much at all.”

Javert mutters something unintelligible under his breath, hiding it poorly behind his cup.

“I require my rosary for a case,” he says louder. “I will not starve myself again to that degree, as that was unpleasant and frankly irresponsible, but I still have not found a suitable criminal for my... needs.”

“You no longer wish to die?”

A brief, bitter smile flashes over Javert’s face. “I have wished to end my existence for decades. I am well used to that desire. That was not the first time I have attempted to end myself.”

The flask of holy water on the bridge, Valjean remembers. He must have acquired it long before Valjean knocked it into the Seine, for how else could he have procured it at such an hour?

“I will agree to not do so again,” he continues, “but I can only do so if I have a reliable source to satisfy the curse. Enough so I can function and not lose myself.” Javert takes another sip of tea, as if they are speaking of the weather and not of suicide and blood.

Valjean knows what he is asking. Javert fought him so vehemently last time, going so far as to put others in danger, so Valjean can only guess that his mysterious need for his rosary is dire.

Curiosity forces his tongue. “Why do you need it so badly? It is only a jet rosary and a flawed one at that. I could have given you one of the better ones had you requested it.”

Javert sighs, looking quite annoyed. “Think, Valjean. I am a police inspector. There are times when I must apprehend criminals using force. Would you not think it strange that someone like me could easily overpower someone as strong as you? Would you not think it suspicious if my wounds would heal in a day when they should take a week? A small holy object pressed to the skin on occasion, such as a rosary, suppresses a great deal of the curse’s strengths so I may appear closer to human.” He leans back in his chair. “The flaws in the one you gave me do not bother me in the least. It is the only one I have found that does not do me immediate harm.”

“I see,” Valjean says. It is quite ingenious. No one would bat an eye at an officer who carries a rosary around. Valjean can only assume that he would not touch it for extended periods of time as he did on the bridge such that it drains him of his strength completely. Perhaps he cannot even be near enough to large quantities of them in order to purchase a new one.

“Tomorrow, I am to attempt to arrest a smuggler, although if it is anything like last time, I will only lose him.” He scowls. “I only just got a warrant approved so I need to use it as soon as possible before he changes locations yet again. I cannot enter the residences where he is keeping the smuggled merchandise without invitation, thus the warrant, which takes time to acquire, and I believe he suspects I am inhuman. Obviously, the officers I am taking with me cannot know what I am. I can only hope he does not voice his suspicions when I arrest him, otherwise...” He frowns into his teacup, then seems to catch himself rambling and shakes his head dismissively. “The point is, I may need to pass as human tomorrow and thus require my rosary in order to arrest Jondrette, or Thénardier, or whatever name he goes by now.”

“Thénardier?” Valjean asks, sitting up straighter and eyes going wide in panic.

Javert scowls. “I had forgotten you had met him.”

Valjean has thought he had escaped that time unrecognized, out the window, but there is no hiding from a vampire.

“I saw him robbing corpses in the sewers the night of the rebellion,” Valjean says. “Fantine left Cosette in his care. His family treated her horribly until I took her away and I believe he may wish me harm because of it.”

“More crimes to add to his list,” Javert mutters to himself.

“He knows who I am.”

At this, Javert’s eyes narrow.

“I would like to think there is goodness in every being, but I have not seen any in him,” Valjean continues, preferring to examine his cup instead of Javert’s face. “If you are looking for a criminal, I believe you have found him.”

“I will think on it,” Javert says. “Still, he must be sent to prison to serve his sentence. I cannot simply abduct him for my own use.”

“I am aware, and I,” Valjean takes a steadying breath, “I willingly volunteer myself for the times you cannot find an acceptable criminal.” He sets his cup down so Javert does not notice his hands are trembling.

Memories of that night still terrify him. He had been entirely helpless while Javert gorged himself, pinned in place by unnaturally strong hands. He remembers Javert’s fangs, how they pierced his neck so easily and how his blood glistened on Javert’s lips afterwards. It is worth it to keep Javert alive and doing good work protecting good people.

To prevent Javert from damning himself.

To perhaps damn his own soul instead.

“It will not be as it was previously,” Javert assures him even as his mouth twists into an unhappy frown. Obviously, he is not pleased to have to take Valjean’s blood instead of his intended prey.

“I understand. How often do you...,” Valjean trails off, not knowing quite how to refer directly to Javert’s vampirism without offending him. It is exceedingly awkward to talk about himself in this way, like he is simply livestock.

“Once a week,” Javert answers quickly. “Last time it had nearly been a full month, and thus my lack of control. If I arrest Thénardier, you will not have to think about it for two weeks yet.”

That is untrue. It has nearly been every one of Valjean’s thoughts since Javert last left his home.

“I believe Thénardier has werewolf blood,” Valjean volunteers. “He has the yellow eyes and the teeth for it, but he is certainly not a full werewolf.”

Javert makes a face of distaste. “That is not in his file. I had not noticed the teeth, but you are correct. He does not smell like a true werewolf. Perhaps a parent passed part of the curse to him.” He huffs and tugs at his whiskers in thought. “It is something to think about, but ultimately there will be little difference. I appreciate the information.”

“Anything to keep Cosette safe,” says Valjean.

There is silence between them, not quite comfortable but not strained either. Carefully neutral.

“You are not obligated to keep me alive,” Javert says eventually. “You told me that you could not tell me what to do with mercy. It has been weeks and still I do not know.”

“It is not a riddle to be solved,” Valjean says. “I want you to live, Inspector.”

Javert snorts, edging his hand away from the patch of sunlight that is slowly moving onto the table. “That is not an answer, Valjean,” he growls. “I would much rather put myself in your service until this arrangement is no longer necessary.”

Which is to say, until one of them dies. It does not need to be explicitly stated to be understood.

“I give myself freely,” Valjean says. Then, quieter, he adds, “You may still arrest me if you wish. I will not resist you.” He almost wishes for arrest rather to submit himself beneath Javert’s fangs again, but with this arrangement he will at least continue to see Cosette until she has no further use for him.

“I proclaimed you are free, and so you will not be arrested,” Javert snaps, waving a hand in a sharp motion. “You are not exchanging bonds of iron for bonds of blood. Jean Valjean is free! I cannot allow you to be sent back to prison in good conscience.”

Valjean flinches at his sharp words but does not argue.

“I must return to the prefecture,” Javert says suddenly. His arms fold themselves over his chest as if he is restraining himself from doing anything rash. “My rosary, if you will.”

“Of course,” Valjean answers.

He goes to his room to retrieve Javert’s rosary, noting how a few of the flawed beads have fractured and cracked while others have been worn smooth. It had been a thoughtless gift, more of an example of his product than something to welcome Javert to his post. Valjean had suspected nothing when Javert hesitated before accepting, far more occupied with keeping his identity secret as much as Javert was.

When he returns, Javert is already by the door slipping his arms through the sleeves of his coat. Valjean hands the rosary to him without a word. It is quickly swallowed by one of the pockets of the worn greatcoat.

“I will inform you of developments regarding Thénardier,” Javert says.

“Thank you, Inspector,” Valjean replies with feeling.

Javert touches a hand to the brim of his hat, then walks away into the sunlight, a dark shadow among the summer blossoms.

Later, after Cosette returns and speaks of all she saw in the market, Valjean sits down with a book and pretends to read. His thoughts are half formed at best, curiosity and fear both attempting to dominate his emotions. Curiosity, as he knows next to nothing about the supernaturals native to Paris and would like to be better informed so he can protect himself if Javert loses control. Fear, as he has just agreed to be Javert’s regular source of blood. Only a fool would agree to such terms.

He glances over his book to Cosette, who is composing a letter no doubt addressed to Marius. She is radiant when speaking of him, so in love with him it is nearly painful for Valjean to watch.

At least he will be of use to someone after Cosette washes her hands of him.

.

As promised, Javert writes him several days later. Due to an unfortunate misunderstanding, Thénardier was shot before he could be arrested. One of the officers had seen his yellow eyes and, thinking him a true werewolf, pulled the trigger. Valjean cannot be relieved at his death. It is unfortunate it is law for supernatural beings to be killed first before questions are asked. It makes Javert’s position very precarious indeed. If he is discovered, he is as dead as Thénardier is.

Javert ends the note with a scribbled address, a day, and a time. The paper shakes in Valjean’s hands.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am here to earn that E rating 🧛

Javert’s apartment is in a group of humble buildings on a street so narrow it would hardly fit a fiacre. It is not the kind of home Valjean would have pictured had he ever pondered such a thing before. The bricks are rounded and worn, some having obviously been replaced by someone with little skill numerous times. A square lantern hangs beside the door, not yet lit.

Valjean does not even knock before the door is pulled open by Javert.

“In,” he growls, looking one ill-thought comment away from losing control of his temper. Valjean cannot even voice a suitable pleasantry, but Javert does not seem to mind. Perhaps it is for the best.

Valjean obeys. He startles when the door slams behind him with a bang.

“Come,” Javert orders, striding towards a narrow stairway. “My landlady is out at present and it would be best for both our sakes if you were not seen here.”

“Why is that?” Valjean asks. The question slips out between his lips and he bites his tongue. He has no wish to anger Javert with ridiculous questions considering what he is here for.

Javert makes a sound like a growl. “Think! My address is known to the police and you are still a wanted man. It would do neither of us good under normal circumstances. I am breaking the law by not reporting you as it is, and now I invite you to my rooms to—" He cuts himself off with a huff and waves a hand.

“Ah,” is all Valjean can say to that.

Javert pushes his way through a door, his motions more forcefully then they need to be. Valjean follows after a slight hesitation in the doorway, pushing down his fears and locking them away. It does not rid the sweat from his palms or calm his racing heart.

The room is cramped and spartan, much like Valjean’s own, but otherwise completely normal. On one side of the room there is a bed, neatly made. On the other, there is a desk with a single chair with Javert’s greatcoat draped over the back. The desk is clean and organized with a few books piled in one corner and paperwork in another, a pen and inkwell perfectly centered along the far edge. A small furnace sits in the corner, currently unlit. The only view from the window is the brick wall of the neighboring house and it is unlikely that any sunlight has ever reached into the room. There is an odd sheet of polished metal, a cheap mirror no doubt, and empty basin on the dresser with a shaving kit and a comb arranged neatly beside it.

It is all very ordinary. Nothing he can see suggests that this is residence to a vampire and not a human.

“Would you prefer the chair or the bed?” Javert asks.

Valjean blinks. “Ah, the chair.”

Javert turns to move the chair in the center of the room. Valjean unties his cravat with hands that are still trembling despite his best efforts.

“What are you doing?”

Valjean starts. “Removing my cravat?”

Javert gives an irritated exhale. “There are other, less invasive ways to go about this. I was not in my right mind the last time; tonight, I only require your wrist.”

“...Ah,” Valjean says, letting his cravat dangle limply around his neck. He does not immediately move to unbutton his cuffs.

“If you are nervous, I can erase your memory of the event or put you to sleep, if you would prefer,” Javert says, the words somewhat disjointed like he had not planned to offer at all.

Valjean recalls how Javert had paralyzed him in the alley, how helpless and terrified it had left him.

“I was unaware you could do that,” he mumbles.

Javert looks away and crosses his arms. “They are types of hypnosis. I do not know the long-term effects, only that it works and no one has yet openly accused me of being what I am.”

“I would rather remember if we are to keep this arrangement,” Valjean says.

Some of the tension eases from Javert’s shoulders.

“I cannot make it more pleasant for you without removing the memory completely,” he says. “It is possible, but it is not something I have ever attempted, and I do not believe I would be successful if I tried.”

“I will be fine,” Valjean says with a small, tight smile. He does not know if he is reassuring Javert or himself.

He removes his coat and lays it on Javert’s bed, then sits in the offered chair. Then he removes the cufflinks on his left wrist, glancing up at Javert hesitantly as he does so. Javert makes an impatient gesture and Valjean returns his attention to his cuffs. He hesitates once more before pulling the sleeve up and it is only another impatient huff from Javert that has him moving.

His wrists are thick with scar tissue, courtesy of the Bagne, and even now he can hardly stand to look at them. Javert has no such aversion and takes his arm as soon as it is offered. His touch is clinical, neither avoiding nor focusing on the scars, and Valjean is thankful for it. All he is concerned with is finding a place where Valjean’s pulse is strong, pressing a pair of fingers to different points along the inside of his wrist.

Javert kneels, his eyes turning to the color of wine. There is no wildness to them this time, only absolute control.

“Ready?” he asks. Valjean can see his fangs are already elongated.

Valjean nods, not trusting his voice. His heart beats loud in his ears like a drum.

It is distinctly odd to see Javert kneeling at his feet and bringing Valjean’s arm to his lips, even odder to watch as Javert’s fangs slice his skin with precision that could only be born of practice. There is pain, yes, but Valjean had expected that. He stifles the sound in his throat at the sudden jolt and thinks, distantly, of the blood of Christ. He should not be making such comparisons and yet finds he cannot help himself when his hunter kneels to drink life from Valjean’s veins.

It is not as terrifying even as Javert’s fangs continue to scrape his tender skin as he drinks, drawing more blood to the surface. It does not frighten him even as he watches Javert’s sallow skin slowly flush with renewed color. Javert’s hold on his wrist is stabilizing rather than gripping; a much-appreciated difference than the time before, but Valjean remembers how weak he had felt in his hold, how entirely helpless.

It is like giving alms, he thinks, except with blood instead of coin. Watching Javert revitalize himself, Valjean cannot see any difference between the two.

It is over far quicker than last time. Javert licks the wound clean with his tongue once again, eyes never once looking away from his wrist, and Valjean watches him with curiosity. It is not an unpleasant feeling, no more than the rest of it, simply very strange.

“Why do you do that afterwards?” Valjean asks when Javert pulls away.

Javert stands, leaving Valjean to examine the damage. There are two deep incisions surrounded by a multitude of minor cuts. The bleeding has already stopped, leaving lines of bright red stark against his skin.

“My saliva assists in healing minor lacerations,” he explains shortly. His lips are stained red, but both of their clothing has remained unblemished with not a drop wasted. “That should be healed by tomorrow morning, if not sooner.”

“Thank you.”

Javert stares at him strangely. “You should not be thanking me.”

Valjean looks away, pulling down his sleeve to hide his scars once again. “You did not have to heal me.”

“Why would I not?” Javert asks incredulously. “It is I who caused the wound and it is simple enough to heal it that there is no reason I should leave you with an open wound, knowing you are walking home this evening. There are far less considerate vampires than myself in Paris, not to mention other such creatures.”

Valjean replaces his cufflinks with more care than they deserve. “I wish to thank you anyway.”

Javert turns and mutters something unintelligible. Then, louder, he says, “You should not have any adverse effects, but rest tonight.” He motions to the basin and the sheet of polished metal. “If you wish to organize yourself.”

Valjean stands carefully, somewhat surprised he does not feel dizzy even after what Javert has told him. The metal reflects himself nearly as well as a mirror and he reties his cravat with hands that are no longer shaking. Javert is holding his coat for him when he finishes, bringing to mind a much different time where they were still hiding secrets from each other. He accepts without a word, slipping his arms through the offered sleeves.

“I was short with you earlier,” Javert says. “I apologize. It was rude of me when I am in your debt.”

“You are forgiven,” Valjean says easily. “Am I correct in thinking it has something to do with...” He holds up his clothed wrist when words fail to come to him.

“Unfortunately,” Javert answers. “It is not an excuse.”

Valjean nods and decides not to start an argument. It is no fault of Javert’s that his nature demands such things and wreaks havoc on his body and mind when it is denied.

“About Thénardier,” Valjean begins.

“He is dead and has no connections to you,” Javert interrupts before Valjean can say any more. “The changeling daughter escaped, but she is not wanted for any crime. Strange for one of the fae, but unless she commits a crime, I can do nothing.”

“You will not arrest her because she is inhuman?” Valjean cannot help but ask.

“That would be hypocritical of me.” Javert’s lips turn upward wryly for a moment. There are still traces of blood on his lips. “I am thinking that I may not be alone in attempting to be human, so I will treat them as humans until they give me reason not to.” He frowns. “I would not have thought to do so if you had not interfered on the bridge.”

“If I had not interfered, you would not be here,” Valjean says softly.

Javert scoffs, as if such a detail is unimportant. “You treat me as if I am human and thus you have changed me.”

“You have always been a good man,” Valjean insists.

Javert sneers. “A good vampire, you mean.”

“No.”

Javert stares at him, scrutinizing his face for any trace of a lie.

“I should be going,” Valjean says, shying away from Javert’s intense stare.

Javert nods. “Of course. I will send you another letter soon.”

“Will we be meeting here?”

“If that is preferable. You have a daughter and several others living with you that could notice something strange, where I live alone and my landlady is often out.”

Valjean can concede to that. “Then I will see you next week.”

“I will inform you if you are not needed as well.”

“Goodnight, Javert.”

Javert bows his head, and Valjean leaves.

He ponders on the differences between the two times he has given himself to Javert as he walks home, absently handing coins to those in need. They could hardly be more separate. Tonight, Javert has clearly been in control of himself and what terror Valjean had possessed was quickly smoothed over to a more reasonable tension. It is still foolish of him, how can it not be when he is submitting himself to a vampire, but Javert is trustworthy. He has more than proved that on the bridge, on that first night when he pressed Valjean to the wall and took blood from his neck, even since the day he first insisted Valjean was free.

When he changes into his nightshirt, the lines of red on his wrist have already faded to a light pink. Valjean nearly touches them in wonder, then abruptly pulls his sleeves down to cover them. Surely Javert would not appreciate his fascination with his abilities. Even so, God must have twisted the creatures of the Devil enough for vampires to have the capacity to heal others. There is no other explanation for it.

He falls asleep thinking of ways to approach Javert with this epiphany in order to convince him that he is not birthed entirely from evil.

.

The next time is less awkward. Javert again gives him a choice between the chair and the bed and Valjean again chooses the chair. He removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeve with only a slight hesitation and makes himself comfortable.

“You are not afraid,” Javert tells him with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

“I know what to expect. Why should I be afraid?”

“I am about to intentionally cause you pain and then consume your blood. I am physically stronger than you and could render you helpless with a thought. There is every reason for you to be afraid!”

Valjean has not forgotten. There are few men that have displayed greater strength than himself and Javert could overpower him easily should he wish to. It should bother him, terrify him even, yet it does not.

“I trust you,” he says simply.

Javert scoffs. “No one with any sense at all would trust a vampire.”

“I have already told you that I lack sense.”

Javert glances upward and runs a hand through his hair. “You are a fool,” he mutters, but he kneels and takes Valjean’s arm in his hands all the same. His fingers linger over the section he had damaged a week ago.

“Is there something wrong?” Valjean asks.

Javert shakes his head. “No. I am only wondering if repeatedly damaging the skin here will eventually scar. It is not my intention to gift you another source of shame.”

“I would not—"

“You hesitate to show me your wrists and you cannot even look at them yourself.” He fixes Valjean with a stare and a stern frown, daring him to deny it.

Valjean turns away, guilty.

“Next time use your right arm,” Javert says, then his eyes shift to red and he brings his fangs to Valjean’s wrist.

Valjean had not prepared himself and the pain comes like an ice-cold shock that has him taking a sharp gasp. Javert’s grip tightens to keep him still. It is a reminder of his strength, of the fact that Javert is a predator by his very nature, yet it comes as a reassurance. There is a small, fluttering feeling of fear between his lungs, but that too does not scare him as it should. It brings an almost forgotten exhilaration, like when he used to climb to the tops of trees as a child and the fear of falling only adds to the thrill. There should not be such a thrill in this charity of blood. He pushes away the feeling with an effort.

It is over quickly and soon Javert is cleaning the wound with his tongue and releasing Valjean’s arm. He should be bothered by that, but again he is not. It heals him with unnatural speed so who is he to deny such assistance?

“Thank you,” Valjean says.

“Why do you insist on thanking me?” Javert says with annoyance.

“You are kind to me.”

“Valjean, I am not kind.”

“Considerate, then. I had not thought about possible scarring.”

“I did not accept your foolish offer to punish you in place of prison,” Javert snaps. “You are a free man in all ways. If you wish to terminate this arrangement, then it shall be done.”

“And if I choose to continue?”

“Then you are more a fool than I thought,” Javert mutters. He holds Valjean’s coat for him once more.

“You are unlikely to find another volunteer,” Valjean says, fixing his cuff.

“I will find something. I will not attempt suicide as I promised.”

“I did not say I would end our arrangement.” He stands and allows Javert to help him into his coat. “I enjoy helping others, and if this is how I can help then I will do it. It is a small sacrifice to pay to be useful.”

Javert frowns but says nothing more.

“I will see you next time. Goodnight, Javert.”

.

The weeks pass. The warmth of summer fades to the chill of autumn and leaves turn from green to red and fall to the ground. There has only been once when Javert wrote to him saying he had no need of him that week, later refusing to tell him what the man had done to qualify himself as Javert’s prey. Valjean takes to walking longer in the evening to disguise his visits with Javert. It is not unusual for him to return after sunset with much lighter pockets and Cosette suspects nothing. Why should she, when soon she is to leave her father for her beloved? Valjean has done his part in raising her and soon a new section of her life is about to begin that he has no right to. Still, he clings to the days he has left with her, committing her happiness to memory so he may look upon it when she is gone.

He rarely speaks of Cosette to Javert, restricting their conversation to laying specters of the past to rest and arguing over if Valjean should be volunteering himself at all.

“How is your daughter?” Javert asks on occasion, clearly grasping for some safe topic to alleviate the silence after he has taken Valjean’s blood.

“She is well, thank you,” Valjean always responds with a tight smile. He never elaborates and Javert never asks of her further.

Javert forces him to alternate wrists for fear of scarring him and denies that he is being considerate. He is always careful when touching him as to not bruise him, but occasionally Valjean finds himself curious about how it would feel to be overpowered and know Javert would release him at a word. He is having these thoughts more often as of late, the fluttering thrill of fear in his chest growing as he admires the odd red of Javert’s eyes before he takes Valjean’s wrist to his mouth to slice his skin with sharp fangs or the stain of blood on his lips afterwards like a morbid mockery of lipstick.

It is more than simple fear. The feeling itself does not scare him as much as not knowing what it is or where it comes from. He starts anticipating his visits to Javert’s apartment to ignite that odd feeling. It should not be enjoyable. This is his penance. He should feel it a duty and not an indulgence. Even the promise of pain by Javert’s fangs does not sway him. It is all worryingly strange and Valjean does not know what to make of it until, quite suddenly, he does.

In retrospect, choosing the bed this evening was a terrible idea. Javert sits beside him instead of kneeling and the mattress is a more comfortable seat than the chair, which was already in use as a hanger for Javert’s soaking wet greatcoat in front of the furnace when he arrived. It had rained nearly the entire day and, from the looks of his coat, Javert lacks an umbrella. Valjean had taken one look at the drying coat and determined the bed to be a better alternative.

He had watched Javert every time before, as there is not much else to do and the process fascinates rather than disturbs him, but watching him when they are eye level is a mistake. This time, when Javert licks the wound clean, he meets Valjean’s eyes for a moment and there is a sudden and abrupt change in that feeling between his lungs. It expands and he is flooded with a want, a desire he has never experienced before. His senses become hyper aware like he has been shocked by lightning. Javert’s eyes are red as blood and his tongue is wet and warm on his wrist and that thrill thrums through his veins like a hundred fluttering sparrow wings. Javert passes his tongue over his wrist again and Valjean represses a shudder. It should not feel good, he should not be enjoying this. For the first time since they had started this arrangement, he looks away.

Javert does not mention his unusual reaction and Valjean cannot look at him without his pulse quickening. He leaves with more speed than usual, not once glancing at the blood- _his_ blood- staining Javert’s lips.

He speaks to Cosette about Marius the weeks following to forget he felt such things at all. Marius is nearly healed but remains frail after being confined to bed for so long. It is easy to see how much he loves her. He will make her happy. Happier than Valjean could ever make her.

Valjean prays before his candlesticks for hours at a time, nearly asking God for things that can never happen. Cosette will live with Marius and Javert will not forgive him. By the time he is finished, his knees are stiff and only straighten with a great deal of pain. He is well used to pain.

The following meeting with Javert is a disaster from the beginning. He is nervous before he even reaches the door, yet still anticipating Javert’s fangs in his skin. Javert is shorter than usual with him, which would normally not bother him but has him flinching today. The first touch of his hands on his arm feel as though they leave trails of cold fire and when Javert bites down it brings ecstasy along with pain. He had chosen the chair again as the bed was clearly a mistake, but Javert kneeling before him presents a new problem.

To his mortification, his cock stirs in his trousers as Javert drinks from him, every new cut bringing forth a sharp surge of pain and pleasure so closely intertwined he cannot differentiate them, and there is nothing he can do to disguise it. It is a noticeable bulge by the time Javert licks the wound clean with efficient strokes of his tongue.

Javert does not stand nor release Valjean immediately, instead fixing him with a look from his place on the floor.

“This excites you,” he states. His eyes have yet to fade back to brown and there is blood on his lips.

“Ignore it, please,” Valjean begs. He cannot look at Javert, he can hardly look at himself.

“I know you to be a masochist, but I did not think it was quite so literal.”

“Javert—"

“I do not claim to understand it, but it is easy enough to...” He lays a hand on the inside of Valjean’s thigh, fingers light but their intent clear.

Valjean stands abruptly, pulling himself away from Javert and knocking the chair backwards in the process. If Javert had not just fed from him, his face would be flushed bright red in mortification. As it is, he manages a deep pink. Even that touch was too much, too good. He does not deserve it.

“I- I should be leaving,” Valjean stutters.

“Valjean,” Javert begins, standing himself.

“I will see you next week,” Valjean interrupts quickly, grabbing his coat and fleeing out the door.

He is out of breath and slightly dizzy by the time he arrives home, erection faded completely in his flight. Why had Javert even offered? He should not lower himself like that even behind closed doors! It is a small mercy he had assumed Valjean’s, ah, _condition_ came from the pain alone and not Javert himself. To act on such desires towards another man is sinful, to do so with a creature of darkness and enjoy it must be doubly so. Valjean may already deserve Hell for the lies he has told and the people he has hurt, but he is still adamant that Javert does not despite his nature.

He does not sleep well that night. Eventually he submits to insomnia entirely and kneels on the cold floorboards to pray until sunrise. It does not help to absolve his guilt.

.

The following meeting is very different. Javert is fully composed and there is no trace of red in his eyes.

“You have found someone else this week,” Valjean accuses once the door to Javert’s room is shut. “There is no reason for me to be here.”

Javert has already moved to stand in front of the door, anticipating Valjean’s desire to flee at once.

“I happened to arrest a very unpleasant man, yes, but I would rather speak to you with a level head instead of when I cannot control my temper,” Javert says. “It would make our next meeting even more awkward than the last. I wish to explain my actions.”

“It will not happen again,” Valjean says hurriedly.

Javert makes an unimpressed sound. “I doubt that. You forget I have done this thousands of times over my life and have experienced all sorts of... interesting reactions.”

Valjean looks away, his cheeks heating.

“You are not the first to interpret pain as pleasure nor the last,” Javert continues, words stilted and awkward as if once rehearsed and now half forgotten. “I admit I find it odd that you were not reacting in such a way from the beginning when you do so now. I only thought I might... repay you in a way. I cannot begin to relieve myself of the debt I owe you, but I must try.”

“You owe me nothing,” Valjean insists. “I am glad to do it.”

He does not realize the double meaning of his words until Javert huffs another silent laugh, his mouth nearly curving in a genuine smile before he seems to catch himself. Valjean’s cheeks all but catch fire with mortification.

“That is why we must speak of it, yes?” Javert asks dryly. “If you would rather ignore it, than it is up to you, but I am not opposed to the idea and you are...” his eyes dart over Valjean’s shoulders, “…not unattractive. You cannot blame yourself for what you do not have control over, as you once told me.”

Oh, if only it were simply a matter of the body! If it were that, he may have a chance of overriding it or even accepting Javert’s offer if he failed. No, it is his mind that is ensnared by Javert’s mere presence, his every movement speaking of a wolf in human skin that Valjean is all too eager to be hunted by. It is Javert’s willpower that impresses him, his control Valjean admires. It is not only the pain of the bite that excites him but the knowledge that it is Javert who survives off his lifeblood, who could hurt him in any conceivable way but refuses to allow his nature to seize control to do so. It is this desire for Javert himself that arouses him, not simply a masochistic pleasure from the pain he causes.

No, it is not something Valjean has control over, but he should.

“Ignore it, I beg of you,” he pleads once more. He watches his own fingers fidget with the brim of his hat close to his chest. “You should never debase yourself for me, nor for anyone. It is a sin.”

“Is our arrangement not sin enough?” Javert asks stiffly. He shifts his weight, the floorboards creaking with it.

“You are a good man,” Valjean says. He feels as if he is always saying it. “You do God’s work to punish the wicked and give warning to those who might slip into a life of crime. You protect the innocent and give them safety.” In his own thoughts, he has compared Javert to a mighty archangel with a flaming sword more than once. He does not say it now, for surely Javert would object to such a comparison, but he cannot unsee it himself. “I do not find it sinful to sacrifice a small part of myself so you may continue to live,” Valjean finishes.

Javert mutters something to himself, Valjean catches the phrase “ _damned fool_ ”, then breathes a heavy exhale. “I will do as you ask, but should you ever reconsider then I am not unwilling.”

“Thank you.” Valjean very carefully avoids thinking about what Javert might do to him if given permission.

Javert waves it off. If he had enough blood in his body to do so, perhaps he too would have a flush of embarrassment to his face. However, Valjean has never once seen him anything other than ashen. He steps away from the door.

“I have nothing more to say and there is nothing to keep you here,” Javert says. “I will send you a note next week.”

It is a clear dismissal, but Valjean can think of a hundred reasons to stay. He hesitates, then replaces his hat on his head.

“Goodnight, Javert.”

“...Goodnight.”

.

Valjean’s dreams are filled with blood and he wakes in the night with his cock stiff and leaking. This is sin, he tells himself, even as he takes himself in hand and imagining what Javert could possibly be offering him. It only takes a few rough strokes until he is shuddering with his release, eyes squeezed tightly and guilt clawing at his heart.

He prays on his knees until morning, greeting Cosette with a forced smile and the dark imprints of his rosary on his palms.

.

Looking away from Javert while he takes his blood does not help. He had not known the inside of his wrists to be sensitive to every brush of lips and imprint of teeth, the sweep of Javert’s tongue afterwards nothing less than erotic. Javert pins him with a look when he is finished, as if expecting Valjean to ask him to relieve the ache in his groin, but says nothing.

His hands rest for a second longer on Valjean’s shoulders after helping him into his coat. Valjean does not know what it means or why it brings renewed heat to his face.

It happens again the next time and the time after that, neither of them speaking of Valjean’s improper arousal. He has just started to think it has become normalized, but Javert is not so quick to dismiss it.

“You deny yourself,” he asks the time after with crossed arms. “Why? You have no reason to. I cannot deny you anything as you hold my sanity in your veins, do you not understand?”

He has not approached Valjean yet to take his wrist to his lips, instead staying by the door instead to snarl questions at him.

“It is not my intention to hold so much power over you,” Valjean apologizes. “I cannot ask that of you. There is a difference between agreeing because you must and acting of your own accord. I will never take that choice from you.”

Javert stares at him with unblinking red eyes that have Valjean’s breath catching in his chest. Javert does not move, hardly even to breathe, for several moments even after Valjean drops his eyes. Then, with a sigh that is nearly a growl, he storms over to drop to his knees before him and takes Valjean’s arm in rough hands. Valjean closes his eyes when his fangs make the first puncture, already fighting the warmth that is pooling in his belly.

He nearly does not notice when Javert moves a hand to his knee, then moving it upwards to the juncture of his thighs. Valjean takes a stuttering breath, eyes flying open and nearly jerking his arm from Javert’s firm hold.

“Be still,” Javert growls against his wrist.

“I told you, I do not wish to—" He cannot continue, not when Javert’s firm hand is nearly to the bulge in his trousers. A small sound of need escapes his throat instead, strangling his words.

“I am not forced,” Javert says, catching his eyes even as he returns to the bite on his wrist.

Valjean’s pulse skips erratically watching his red eyes even as he creates another cut with his sharp fangs. There should not be such pleasure in this, yet another helpless sound forces its way from Valjean’s lungs at the pain. He cannot form words, not even to deny Javert, when that firm hand presses itself against his hardness. It is wonderful and agony at once, pleasure leaving him gasping even as guilt floods his lungs.

“Javert,” he pleads, not knowing if he is asking for him to stop or continue. He grips the arm of the chair with his free hand with white knuckles. “ _Javert—_ ”

Javert chooses to continue, returning his focus to Valjean’s wrist but not stopping his other attentions. His hand strokes him with hard, slow movements drawing more mortifying sounds from Valjean. It is too good, even through the rough fabric of his trousers, all tight control even as Valjean’s hips involuntarily thrust forward against his hand. Javert squeezes his length with lingering fingers, then the firm heel of his palm returns to bring a whine from Valjean’s lips.

There is little room for thought in his mind, only that Javert’s hand on his groin is nothing like his own hand and that he should not be allowed this pleasure. It is like nothing he has experienced before. He bites his own tongue to hold in the sounds that wish to escape, and he is only partially successful.

Javert finishes feeding before Valjean can reach completion, once again holding his eyes as he swipes his tongue over the wound several times, letting red bead on the surface of his skin before licking it away. The sight of his own blood on Javert’s tongue should not make his cock twitch under Javert’s hand. Javert repeats the action once more, slowly dragging his tongue across his skin and squeezing him until Valjean finishes with a shudder and a drawn-out moan.

Javert is watching him when he comes back to himself, having removed himself from Valjean’s immediate presence. There is no disgust there where there should be, only a strange sort of curiosity.

“It is not only pain,” he observes.

“You should not have done that,” Valjean says, refusing to meet his eyes. His trousers are damp with his release and will soon become uncomfortable. He pulls his cuff back around his wrist to avoid thinking about it.

“You wanted it,” Javert continues.

“No,” Valjean lies. His heartbeat stumbles in its rhythm.

Javert clearly does not believe him. “Why do you deny yourself?”

“I do not deserve it.”

“How are you undeserving?”

“Surely you know the answer to that, Inspector.”

The use of his title has him standing, assessing Valjean with sharp dark eyes.

“If I thought you deserved punishment, I would not have hesitated to send you back to prison,” he says with a scowl. “You say I am a good man? Ha! You are a better one.” He turns to the window, the one who’s only view is of its neighboring wall, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he does so. “I was beyond willing,” he says in a quieter voice.

Valjean blinks. Javert does not turn to face him. “Why?”

A bark of bitter laughter. “You should know better than to give your trust to me. I will take advantage of this; of everything you foolishly give me. I will hurt you.”

“I will allow you,” Valjean says quietly.

Javert spins around, a snarl on his face and his hands in fists at his sides. “You never realize what you are saying! You should allow me nothing for I will ruin you.”

“I will allow even that.”

Javert glares at him for long moments, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared with some emotion Valjean cannot discern.

“Get out.”

Valjean obeys without a word, crossing the room to retrieve his coat. At the door, Javert speaks again.

“I will send a note in a week,” he growls out.

“Of course. Goodnight, Javert.”


	4. Chapter 4

He cannot help but wonder what Javert means he will ruin him. Can he not see Valjean is already ruined? Desires he wishes he did not have thrum under his skin in Javert’s presence, a lifetime of celibacy gone to waste at a single touch. He prays for forgiveness and confesses his failings to God in front of his silver candlesticks until the flames drown in wax and it does not ease the shame he feels nor does it help with his dreams. They come frequently, waking him with a racing heart and an ache between his thighs.

Cosette is his singular distraction. He walks with her as often as she will allow it, occasionally strolling to the meadow at sunrise as they used to do before she had first seen a chain-gang. It is not as beautiful as it once was. Autumn has stolen away the poppies that she used to make little crowns of, the blossoms like miniature fires in her hair. She is still beautiful, unlike himself who grows more worn and wrinkled by the day. When she smiles, she is radiant and Valjean is both proud and saddened. Like the sun, Cosette will soon be gone from his life. She is very good at keeping his thoughts away from vampires and blood and Javert, however unknowingly.

Javert’s usual note arrives and already Valjean feels a fresh wave of shame overtake him. Cosette deserves a better father than himself, who finds pleasure at the hands and fangs of a vampire. A monster. He must cut ties with her as soon as she is married if this continues. There are only so many excuses he can make for the days after when he is tired or why he is so quiet during meals.

When the day comes, he does not deny Javert’s hand on his thigh and closes his eyes against the sight. They do not speak of it afterwards. Javert watches him when he leaves, the space between Valjean’s shoulder blades tingling.

He should not feel such desires in Javert’s presence, should not welcome the pain that comes with the bite. It should not bring him comfort when Javert’s hands occasionally linger on his shoulders when assisting him with his coat. They may have grown more comfortable with each other over the months, but they can hardly be called anything but friendly acquaintances.

A few days later, Marius nervously asks for permission to ask Cosette to marry him.

“Of course, my son,” Valjean answers, making an effort to look happy. He is afraid he fails quite miserably, for misery is all he can feel. In his chest, his heart begins to break.

Cosette is, of course, ecstatic. She speaks of a wedding and of a dress and of Marius and she is happier than Valjean has ever seen her. His heart trembles.

.

“What sort of memories can you erase?” Valjean asks Javert softly the next time they see each other, taking his time in pushing up his sleeve.

“Have you decided to alter our arrangement?” Javert asks impatiently.

“Perhaps,” Valjean says, although he had not been thinking of their meetings at all. “I thought if I did not remember liking it so much that it would cease to happen.”

Javert huffs. “That is not how it works. I cannot access memories that far in the past, so the point is irrelevant.”

“Ah.” So, removing all memories of Cosette from his mind is not possible. It was only a thought, and a selfish one at that. Cosette will leave and he will be alone and that will be just.

“Do you want to forget this meeting?”

Would it be terrible of him to not have memories of their meetings? To, in a way, bar Javert from his life as well?

He thinks for a moment and realizes he cannot. It is selfish of him to keep Javert like this, as one person he has no need to hide from any longer, but he is a selfish man. Perhaps if he only forgot the act itself then he would cease having such dreams.

“I wish to remember the parts after and I wish to leave as myself,” Valjean says carefully. “Is that acceptable?”

Javert frowns but gives a sharp nod.

Then, time skips. Valjean blinks several times, as if waking save for he is already awake, and Javert is once again standing in front of him and his wrist is prickling with healing wounds. It is very odd. He tries to remember, but his mind encounters only a frightening lack of anything at all. There is only nothing between Javert agreeing and now. Absolutely nothing.

“Valjean?”

He cannot help but attempt to remember, every time that frightening void exists where it should not, so unnatural that his mind does not know how to process it. It frightens him, even more than the thought of Javert losing control and killing him by accident. Something so empty should not exist. There is no trace of emotion, no half-remembered thoughts or feelings like a partially remembered dream. There is only _nothing_.

“Are you alright?”

Javert has stepped closer, a hand half extended as if he had attempted to give comfort but thought better of it partway through. Valjean sees it from the corner of his eye and grasps it in his own, desperate for some sort of anchor. His breath is coming short and fast in a panic, that terrible nothingness in his mind frightening him more than anything before in his life. He would rather endure the shame of these visits a hundred times over than face more of that nothingness.

“Valjean? Valjean!”

Valjean blinks rapidly, trying to stop thinking about the empty space in his head. His cheeks are damp, but he cannot bring himself to care.

“That was...” He clears his throat and his hand tightens around Javert’s. “Not what I expected.”

“I refuse to attempt this again when it brings you such distress,” Javert says. His face is ill suited to worry and it is only Valjean’s familiarity with him that he recognizes the scowl on his lips is directed at himself and not Valjean. “I can only assume you are upset by it as you are aware you are missing those minutes, I took from you. It never had this effect before.”

Valjean spends another moment getting himself under control and attempting to discreetly wipe the wetness from his eyes. “I believe you are correct.”

Javert squeezes his hand in an unusual display of comfort, then pulls himself away. “We will not be doing that again,” he decides.

Valjean cannot argue with him.

“This time was no different, if you are curious,” Javert continues after a moment. “You have missed nothing that you have not experienced before.”

Valjean gives his thanks in a nod and does not remove himself from the chair for several minutes. Javert does not encourage him to leave and only stands with his arms over his chest, thick eyebrows drawn together in thought. When he finally rises and says goodnight at the door, he takes Javert’s hand once more for a short moment and hopes Javert understands. He has stopped thanking him in words when Javert always argues that he is not deserving of thanks. This will have to do.

He dreams of the void in his memory, waking in a cold sweat and willing himself to think of other things instead. It dissipates with time, other memories crowding around it until it is but a vague abnormality and no longer terrifies him as it did originally. Still, he will not ask for that again. He can only imagine the shock he would be in if Javert was able to remove all his memories of Cosette in such a way. It is certainly for the best that he cannot.

The ongoing guilt about what his visits with Javert kindle in him has yet to fade in the same way. The Bible makes no mention of a situation like his, so perhaps he will be forgiven. The Church would certainly not approve, but then again, the Church and Valjean’s interpretations of the Bible do not always coexist in harmony. He is certainly not laying with Javert as he would a woman, for technically he is not laying at all but sitting and in addition he has never lain with a woman to begin with. It is not coercion, as Javert always has a choice and in fact chooses to ignore Valjean’s weak denials on a regular basis, so perhaps they will be forgiven. He receives no obvious answers.

Still, he chooses to voice his confessions of his visits to God in the privacy of his own room before his pair of silver candlesticks rather than in a confessional booth.

.

“Congratulations,” Javert says to him at the beginning of their next appointment. He does not elaborate.

“Pardon?” Valjean asks.

“Your daughter is engaged. It was in the paper.” He crosses his arms, irritable as always. “You did not tell me.”

“I was unaware you wished to know,” Valjean says quietly.

“She is important to you. I would have thought you would at least be happy by the news.”

Valjean can only grimace. Javert takes it as an answer.

“You saved the groom’s life. I had assumed you at least approve of him.”

“I do approve. He will make her happy and she will want for nothing when they are married.”

“Yet you are unhappy.”

Valjean tries to smile. It is forced and brittle even by his own judgement. “It is enough that she is happy.”

Javert clenches his jaw, as if physically preventing himself from demanding answers from him. “Give me your wrist,” is what he snaps out instead.

Afterwards, when Javert is satisfied and Valjean’s spend is again dampening his trousers, it is quickly apparent that the conversation is not over.

“What would make you happy?” Javert asks as Valjean makes himself presentable.

“Pardon?”

“I am not going to repeat myself.”

“Why does it matter?”

“If your daughter being married and happy causes you sorrow, then what would satisfy you? You are free and even moderately protected, as I do not believe anyone besides myself who knows Jean Valjean to even be alive. What is preventing you?”

Valjean blinks. He has never considered what it would take to bring him happiness. Safety, which he has thanks to Javert, surely. Cosette and her own happiness. Forgiveness from those who cannot grant it to him.

“I have not thought about it,” he answers honestly. “Are you happy?”

Javert snorts. “No.”

“What would satisfy you then?” He does not know why he is asking.

“I will be satisfied when I am dead,” Javert answers bluntly. “It is the only way to free myself of this curse.”

Valjean frowns. “Surely you must be in want of something that would make you happier.”

A humorless smile flickers across Javert’s face, displaying a flash of teeth beneath red-stained lips. “Once I wished for a coven to call my own, to have my nature known and to be treated as an equal. It was a foolish wish, for any vampire would think me ridiculous and my goals pointless, but now I have you.”

“I make you happy?” Valjean asks, unable to keep the note of incredulousness out of his voice.

“You make me annoyed and frustrated and conflicted,” Javert corrects with a scowl, then his face softens into something not quite as harsh. “There are times, however rare, where I... enjoy your company.”

That should not make Valjean’s heart trip on its rhythm.

“I also appreciate your companionship,” Valjean says carefully. “I have told Cosette nothing, not even who I was before Toulon. She would not understand, but you...” He trails off, aware he is quickly verging on territory he dares not tread even in the safety of his own thoughts.

Javert makes a sound of understanding. “When is the wedding?”

“They have yet to choose a date,” Valjean answers immediately, grateful for a change in subject.

He touches Javert’s hand again when he leaves, again thankful for the conversation he could never have with anyone else.

It is several months before the wedding can be held, but Cosette hardly speaks of anything else. Valjean retrieves the rest of his money from the forest if only to escape thinking about the future for a couple of days. Most of it will go towards her dowry, the rest for his own few living expenses and daily charity. It is still too much for him. He is a simple man, after all. What he doesn’t use will be given to Cosette and a few charities after his death.

He continues to pray for the Lord’s forgiveness for his desires towards Javert. If these things were truly against Him, there would have been some kind of sign. They have never once been interrupted and they have both gone about their lives untouched by any sort of divine intervention. Either it is not as much a sin as the Church claims, or He truly does not mind what transpires between him and Javert in private.

Or, a third option Valjean hesitates to consider: they are already so far damned that it is pointless to stop further sin.

Still, he cannot help feeling guilty and shamed for enjoying such attentions.

“I wish to attempt something different, if you permit it,” Javert announces the next time.

“Oh?”

“It would be quite a bit easier for both of us if you lowered your trousers beforehand.”

Valjean flushes brightly at such a blunt request, but he is correct. It would be more comfortable and leave fewer questionable stains for his laundress to discover. If they are already committing this act, such modesty is pointless.

“Will you still be needing my wrist?” he asks. An image of Javert’s fangs carving red lines in his thighs had instantly burned itself into his mind at the suggestion and he cannot deny that he wants it.

“How else would I—" He pauses and blinks, likely belatedly understanding Valjean’s odd request. “There are arteries in the legs, if you would prefer,” he says slowly. “It is less efficient, but I do not object.”

Valjean does not trust himself to speak so he only nods his affirmation, his prick stirring at the idea alone.

“Whenever you are ready,” Javert says. The words are stiff and awkward and he does not meet Valjean’s eyes.

It is impossible for Valjean’s face to become any hotter. He watches the floor intently as he unfastens his trousers and pushes them to his knees. Already, his cock is starting to stiffen.

“Ready,” he says quietly when he has sat down in the chair. It is pleasantly warm, having previously been close to the furnace, but the feeling of lacquered wood on his bare thighs has him flushing anew.

Javert kneels between his open legs with a hand on each knee, eyes red but focused entirely on Valjean’s legs and not his quickly hardening cock. Like before, he uses his fingers to find a suitable vein to use, but unlike before the clinical touch only excites Valjean further. Javert’s hands are cool, but not cold enough as to be uncomfortable. Valjean holds back a sound. He should not have suggested this.

He gasps when Javert sinks his fangs into the soft flesh of his inner thigh, the sharp pain going directly to his groin. Javert’s hand slowly rubs up and down his other thigh, a gesture of comfort that seems almost to have morphed into appreciation of his form. That could not be right. He is old and human and scarred and—

Javert makes another puncture and Valjean can hardly think at all. He does not know precisely when Javert takes him in hand and begins to stroke him. The sharp pain turned to pleasure from his fangs on his thigh steal his attention, both the same and different from the times Javert has used his wrist. It is more intense and far more intimate and Valjean’s hands fly to Javert’s shoulders without his permission. Javert looks up at him through his bangs, eyebrows drawn together, and starts to draw away. Valjean cannot hope to challenge the strength of a vampire but makes every attempt to keep him in place.

“Please,” he begs, shame heating his face and hands gripping tight to Javert’s shirt.

Javert’s lips move against his skin, forming what might be called a smile if not for the predator lurking in his eyes. Keeping eye contact, he curls his lips and drags his fangs over Valjean’s skin to leave another set of red slashes. Valjean makes a strangled sound at the pain, his fingers digging into Javert’s skin. It is more of a display than usual, like Javert is making a point and reminding him exactly what brings him to this state. His hand on Valjean’s cock has nearly stopped as if it is more of an afterthought than what he can do to Valjean with his fangs alone. Valjean cannot look away, breath coming faster as Javert mars his body.

It takes more time than usual and there are a great many more lines and punctures on his skin, but it is not very long before Javert is licking them clean. His skin is warm after consuming Valjean’s blood, body revitalized. After several more passes of his tongue, which Valjean does not think are strictly necessary but have his cock twitching all the same, he turns his attention to Valjean’s groin.

“May I use my mouth?” he asks.

Valjean wants to say no, that he should not kneel before him in this way like an inferior, but already his head is nodding his consent and his hands tightening once more on Javert’s shoulders. If he dared pray during these sessions, he would pray for strength to deny him. For Javert to have the strength to stop him for begging for such terrible things.

There are still stains of blood on Javert’s lips, but his tongue is clean and his fangs nearly retracted. Valjean’s heart beats faster at the thought of those fangs so close to something so delicate, but again it does not frighten him as much as it thrills him. Javert does not comment on it though Valjean is certain he can hear the changes in his heartbeat.

The first lick has Valjean struggling to stay silent, the second has his silence failing. Javert draws his tongue up his entire length and looks far too satisfied with Valjean’s lack of composition. Valjean’s fingers fly from Javert’s shoulders to his hair when Javert takes the head of his cock entirely into his mouth. Simply Javert’s hand had been good, but this wet heat and the tantalizing danger of his fangs is far better. It does not take long at all before Valjean is tugging on Javert’s hair in warning.

“Javert,” he gasps. “Javert, I am— Soon—"

Javert only tightens his mouth around him, stroking the rest of his length in his hand. Valjean finishes with a muffled groan, fingers tangled in Javert’s hair. Javert swallows his spend before releasing him and grimacing.

“The taste is not what I expected,” he says as an explanation.

Valjean, however, is mortified. Again, he allowed his body to rule his mind and again, Javert has lowered himself. The Church would name this sodomy and call it a sin. He looks away into his lap and catches sight of the mess of angry red lines on his thigh. It looks just as he thought it would, perfectly ruined, and he feels guilty even as such a sight satisfies him.

“I should not have suggested that,” Valjean says when he finds his voice. He stands quickly to pull his trousers up again to cover himself. “It is sin.”

Javert stands as well. “It is no more sin than we have already committed. It is not as if I am unwilling.”

“You should not debase yourself!” Valjean argues. “You are a good man; you should never lower yourself for my sake!”

“You seem to forget who the better man between us is,” Javert snaps. “Do you think I do this selflessly?”

“Why else?”

Javert laughs. The sound is bitter and unpleasant. “Because I enjoy seeing you ruined and undone! Would a good man desire such depravity from another? You give yourself to me so easily and I despise how I cannot stop taking advantage at every turn.”

“You have not yet hurt me,” Valjean points out. “You have never taken what I did not give.”

“So we are both weak.”

Valjean cannot disagree. “This cannot happen again,” he says instead.

“No,” Javert agrees.

Valjean makes himself presentable, although he feels the phantom touch of Javert’s hands on his thighs is a visible marker for all to see. Javert is silent, watching him with dark eyes and a scowl on his face.

“Do you pray?” Valjean asks

“On occasion.”

“Will you pray with me now?”

Javert arches an eyebrow. “You would pray with a damned creature such as myself?”

“Especially you.”

Javert retrieves his rosary from his coat pocket in silence. Valjean takes it in his own hand and places Javert’s on top in a way that he is not touching the rosary directly. He will not see Javert in pain if it is in his power to prevent it. Together, they kneel. Valjean prays for forgiveness and strength for the both of them. Javert’s lips move, but he does not voice even a whisper of what he is praying for.

-

In the days between, Valjean tells himself he will say no and stop this. The next time, he has Javert’s hair tangled in his fingers before Javert can even ask, urging him onward. Javert’s hands grip his hips tight enough to leave several faint bruises and he takes so much of Valjean’s length in his mouth that his sideburns tickle the inside of Valjean’s thighs. It is too good. Valjean finishes with Javert’s name on his lips and Javert’s red eyes locked with his.

“If we cannot stop this then we should cease our arrangement,” Javert says afterwards. His hair is in disarray and he is scowling.

“You will suffer for it,” Valjean says, refastening his trousers. “I cannot allow you to put yourself at risk again, so we must prevent this ourselves. Will you pray with me?”

Javert retrieves his rosary and does not argue any further. A part of Valjean’s mind recognizes that neither one of them truly wish to stop. Perhaps Javert realizes this as well, as he allows his hands to linger once more helping Valjean into his coat. It is terrible how even that brings him comfort, how the temptation to stay in Javert’s presence grows with each visit. He must remind himself that it is sinful, that he should be shamed instead of pleased by Javert’s attentions, that their original arrangement did not include acts such as these.

Valjean touches the healing marks on his thighs once alone in his own rooms, a single candle all he allows himself to see by. They cover both thighs this time, dangerously high on his legs, and had stung pleasantly for the entire walk back to his own home. He should not have encouraged Javert to mark him further, to cause him such pleasurable pain and draw undignified sounds from Valjean’s throat. It should not be so good. Valjean has never known pleasure from another before and Javert is unfortunately talented at bringing him to release.

“This cannot happen again,” they say after each visit, meaning it less and less each time. Javert is always ready with his rosary to pray with him afterwards after that second time. If they are damned, then they are damned together. It is a small, unexpected comfort.

It is December now, and winter has hit Paris with a snowstorm. Valjean makes the journey to Javert’s apartment on foot despite the weather, bundled in several layers at Cosette’s insistence. The ends of his scarf are coated with ice by the time Javert opens the door for him.

“You should not have to come today,” Javert says in a growl, quickly urging Valjean up the stairs. “If I had known it was to storm, I would have chosen another day. You could freeze in such weather and then where would we be!”

Valjean smiles at his concern, unbothered by his sharp tone. He cannot admit that he could not wait another day. A week is far too long to go between visits, and he becomes restless the days leading up to every meeting in eager anticipation. After being able to speak of himself freely around Javert, he is finding it difficult to continue lying to Cosette. He must continue, but the freedom Javert allows him is something he cannot have in his own home. Of course, Javert gives him other things, such as pleasure of the flesh, but it is not only those acts that Valjean misses.

“Foolish,” Javert mutters, helping Valjean out of his layers and placing them to dry by the furnace. Even Valjean’s cravat is damp from melted snow and Valjean removes it without a thought, so used to other sorts of undress around Javert that wearing an uncomfortably damp cravat around his neck seems absurd.

“What are you doing?” Javert asks from the furnace. It is already blazingly warm in the room and does not need further stoking, but Javert always misjudges what temperature is comfortable for a human and often overcompensates. Valjean can never bring himself to mind.

“It is wet and should be laid out with my other things,” Valjean explains, then remembers his very first visit when he expected Javert to take from his neck. “Does it bother you?”

Javert watches him for a moment, then shakes his head sharply. “Do what you will.”

Valjean lays it out on the chair that is being used as a drying rack for Javert’s coat once more. When he turns back to Javert, he is still staring intently at Valjean’s neck with wine-red eyes.

The first time Javert had taken blood from him, he was half-crazed and wild. They have not attempted to repeat the experience and neither have mentioned the option of taking blood from Valjean’s neck again. It has some appeal, as Javert has not used his unnatural strength on Valjean since then. Surely, he would.

“Do you want something from me?” Valjean asks carefully, heartbeat quickening.

Javert turns his head away abruptly. “I dare not ask.”

“I will allow it.”

“That is precisely why I do not ask.” He scowls at the furnace. “You are far too lenient. You allow me anything.”

“What if I am offering?” Valjean asks, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirtsleeves to hide a flush of embarrassment.

Javert crosses the room with long, swift strides, suddenly so close they are nearly breathing the same air. Like a moth to a flame, save for Javert is no moth and Valjean is certainly no flame.

“Are you offering?” Javert asks in a low tone that sends heat to his groin. His eyes are red, the sheer inhumanness of him somehow sending a shiver of desire through Valjean’s body. “Do you want me to drink from your neck and trap you against the wall with my strength again? Do you want to be made powerless against me?”

“Yes,” Valjean admits in a small, breathless voice. “Yes, I want it.” It is becoming easier to admit these things when he knows Javert will not say no.

Javert’s eyes widen minutely, as if surprised Valjean is entirely willing for even this, and then Valjean is pressed firmly against the wall several feet away from where he was just standing. His heart trips and races in his chest.

“Your strength means nothing to me,” Javert reminds him, quiet and dangerous in his ear.

Valjean nods jerkily in agreement, words fleeing from his mind entirely and hands clutching blindly at Javert’s sides and fisting his hands in his waistcoat.

Javert presses closer, so close they are chest to chest and there is no hiding the erection forming in Valjean’s trousers, and Javert buries his nose in the crook of Valjean’s bare neck. He breathes, the sensation sending shivers through Valjean’s body.

“You do not know how tempting you smell like this,” Javert says quietly, nearly a mutter. “So eager for me to make you bleed, to take your blood. Even now, look at you.” He cups a hand around Valjean’s hardening length, drawing an eager moan from him. “You want this.”

“Please,” Valjean begs. His mouth is dry at Javert’s words alone. It is pathetic how quickly he is reduced to this state, but he can never bring himself to care with Javert’s body pressed against his own or his fangs so close to his skin. “ _Please_ , Javert.”

Javert smiles against his neck, obviously pleased to hear the breathless pleas falling from Valjean’s mouth. As usual, he does not give a warning before piercing his fangs into his skin. Valjean gasps at the sharp pain turned pleasure, but he is held firmly in place by Javert pinning him to the wall with the weight of his chest. This is everything he wants. He is helpless to do anything but take what Javert gives him, his natural strength easily overwhelmed by Javert’s inhuman power. It thrills him even as he can do nothing but groan when Javert shoves his legs apart with a knee, unable to do anything at all save for to give small, sharp thrusts of his hips against what little friction Javert provides for him.

Javert pulls the neckline of his shirt aside and bites down again. The mix of pain and pleasure has Valjean nearly pleading, only just remembering to hold back the sounds, and urging Javert onward with needy whines and groans instead. His hands grasp at Javert’s back and he even tips his head to the side to encourage him.

“We should stop,” Javert mutters, then licks a wide stripe over the wounds he created like a display of possession.

“Yes,” Valjean agrees, yet does nothing to indicate a willingness to follow through. Instead, he groans Javert’s name when Javert moves a hand between them to unfasten Valjean’s trousers.

“This is sin,” Javert says as he takes Valjean in rough strokes.

“Yes,” Valjean moans, tilting his head back until it rests against the wall. “Yes, Javert, please—"

This time it is Javert who groans, once again bringing his fangs across his skin and drawing blood from Valjean’s neck. It is a shallow cut, probably for Valjean’s benefit alone, but Valjean shudders at the sharp pleasure all the same. Javert presses himself closer, forcing Valjean completely flat against the wall and nudging his knee further between Valjean’s thighs until Valjean feels an answering harness against his own hip. He reaches for it blindly with a clumsy hand. Javert has never reached such a state of physical arousal previously as far as he is aware and Valjean is eager to repay him in kind, sin or no sin.

Javert groans against Valjean’s skin when Valjean palms him through his trousers. It is a very pleasing sound, so Valjean does it again only to have Javert grab his wrist in a bruising grip.

“Wait,” Javert commands. Valjean obeys without question, his hand clutching Javert’s hip instead.

Javert takes his time cleaning Valjean’s neck with rough licks. Even that is pleasurable on his absurd skin, sending shudders of desire through him like aftershocks. Then he pulls his head away from Valjean’s neck and unfastens his own trousers that Valjean is eager to help push down out of the way.

“I will not last,” Javert warns, breath warm on Valjean’s cheek, then takes both of them in hand at once.

Valjean is certain he will not last either once Javert brings both of them together. He dares not look down at the sight, the feeling of Javert’s cock hard against his own is already better than anything they have done before. There is little to ease the friction save for their natural fluids, but even then it is wonderfully pleasing. Valjean watches Javert’s face instead, fascinated at the color to his cheeks that nearly matches the stain to his lips. It would be easy to kiss him and finally know what his blood tastes like on Javert’s mouth. He has thought of it before, many times. It would be so simple. He would only have to move his head just so—

Javert starts at the first touch of lips, his hand stilling on their cocks, but Valjean pulls him by the knot of his cravat to kiss him again. The first pass of his tongue over Javert’s lips feels foolish and uncoordinated and tastes of sharp copper, but Javert does not seem to mind and presses back with a groan. They are both clumsy, their eagerness more than making up for their lack of finesse. The taste of blood in his mouth should disgust him, but it only drives him further knowing that it is his. Javert’s fangs are sharp even when they are not extended, as Valjean soon learns, which only leads to a fresh bloom of copper on his tongue that Javert is quick to swallow.

Javert’s hand quickens on them both and it is not long before Valjean is tightening his hand on Javert’s hip as a warning and groaning into Javert’s mouth, his release covering Javert’s hand. Javert finishes moments later with his head turned into Valjean’s neck.

For nearly a minute, neither of them move or speak.

“I should not have done that,” Javert mutters at last. “You should not have tempted me.”

“I know,” Valjean answers quietly. “I should not have kissed you.”

Javert snorts dismissively, a breath of air that raises the hairs on the back of Valjean’s neck. “I believe that to be the least sinful thing we did.” Javert raises his head and steps away, retrieving a handkerchief from his dresser to clean himself with.

“I should not have wanted it in the first place. None of it.” Valjean pauses. “Do you believe there could be something flawed in me?” he asks hesitantly. There must be a reason they inspire this in each other.

“No,” Javert snaps immediately. “You are not flawed. We simply must control this better. My enhanced senses only hinder me when I know you to be so willing.” He hands a second handkerchief to Valjean, not looking at him. “You weaken me. Are you certain you are not actually a saint? Or is your faith strong enough to affect me?”

“I am no saint and it is certainly not my intention to weaken you,” Valjean says, wiping away the evidence of their mistakes and redressing himself. “Am I causing you pain when I touch you?”

“No, it is only my control that is weak.” Javert too has dressed himself again, his shirttails in the process of being tucked into his trousers again. “I took more than I should have today. You will take a carriage home. It is unsafe for you to be walking about in this storm.”

Valjean does indeed feel a little lightheaded but had attributed it to their shared release instead of blood loss. Perhaps Javert had never been physically aroused as Valjean always finds himself in their previous meetings because he lacks the blood to do so with how much he takes normally. Valjean approaches the bed questioningly, only sitting when Javert gives a nod. Javert can be odd about the neatness of things and he does not wish to upset him.

“You may be correct,” Valjean admits. “I was not paying attention and should have alerted you earlier.” It is partly a lie. He cannot begin to regret how much Javert had taken from him when it brings Javert such pleasure.

Javert scowls at him, then leaves the room abruptly with a mutter about food and drink and regaining Valjean’s strength. When he is gone, Valjean finally gives into the urge to touch his lips. He had never kissed anyone like that before. It had been a mistake and cannot be allowed to happen again, but he cannot bring himself to regret it. He has kissed Cosette on the forehead often when she was a child and surely he had kissed his own mother, but he has never even imagined kissing someone as he had kissed Javert.

He is growing attached. It cannot happen. He will not allow it. This is an arrangement, nothing more. They can hardly be considered friends considering their pasts. When Cosette is married, he will have no reason to stay in Paris save for Javert. At least Javert will have a use for him until he becomes too frail for his purposes— if they both live that long. He realizes he does not actually know how old Javert is. Nearly a century, he said on the bridge, or perhaps longer. It strikes him how strange it is that Javert is older than him rather than younger like he had assumed for so many years, but it does not bother him overmuch.

“You will not leave until you have eaten a satisfactory amount,” Javert says sternly, returning with a tray of bread and cheese and a glass of water. “I have allowed my landlady to believe you are a consultant for a case, or something similar. It is unclear what she thinks you are doing here and I did not stay long enough for her to tell me.” He balances the tray on the bed and thrusts the glass into Valjean’s hands. “Drink,” he orders.

“Yes, Monsieur le Inspector,” Valjean agrees dutifully, earning himself an annoyed glare. He catches sight of the healing red lines on the side of his neck in Javert’s metal mirror. Cosette mustn’t see, but for now Valjean is free to appreciate them. Javert was considerate enough to leave his marks below the collar of his shirt. He traces one of the longer scratches with a finger before noticing Javert’s eyes watching him, the slightest trace of satisfaction on his lips. Valjean flushes and lowers his hand.

It is the first time they properly share a meal, Javert returning with another tray for himself after being caught staring at Valjean’s tray several times.

“I could subsist entirely off of blood,” he explains with a scowl of distaste, “but that simply is not feasible unless I am draining someone every few days like Montparnasse.”

“I recognize that name from the papers. He is a vampire?”

“I suspect so. How else could he remain so young for so many years?”

“Why does his age matter?”

Javert sighs in annoyance. “Montparnasse is probably nearly as old as you are, if not older. I age nearly half as fast as a human because I limit myself to just enough blood to keep myself functioning and sane. He ages far slower and has no concern for what lives he takes. A vampire can become functionally immortal when given enough blood.” He looks at Valjean as if to say this was obvious.

“We did not have vampires in Faverolles,” Valjean tries to explain. “I was raised on stories of werewolves and forest spirits for that was what ailed us.”

“That is how you knew about Thénardier.”

“He has the eyes and the temperament but lacked the thick facial hair that is typical of true werewolves, yes.” Valjean studies Javert’s own thick sideburns. He could be mistaken for a werewolf, if not for the ashen skin and dark eyes.

Javert scowls, hand raising to his cheek to tug at his whiskers in a gesture that is nearly self-conscious save for the glare he gives Valjean. “If you are comparing me to a creature that transforms into a mindless beast, then I am shaving them off.”

“No, they suit you,” Valjean hurries to say. “I like them.”

Javert huffs, but his cheeks darken slightly with a flush he is normally unable to produce. No, Valjean does not regret allowing Javert to take more of his blood than usual if it allows him such sights as this.

Later, after they have prayed together and Javert has deemed him rested enough to travel home safely, he assists Valjean in waving down an empty fiacre. Valjean cannot argue that he is fine to walk home when that is blatantly untrue. It is much colder now, as it is far later than when he usually returns home. Cosette will be worried by now.

“I will see you in a week?” he finds himself asking.

“Of course,” Javert answers simply, as if there is no chance at all he may find a suitable criminal instead. Such assurance should not ease Valjean’s mind and set his lips into a foolish smile he is unable to suppress.

“Goodnight, Javert.” He ducks into the carriage before Javert can spot his expression.

Javert touches the brim of his hat, then turns to return to his lodgings.

Valjean tries very hard to avoid thinking about kissing him goodbye and if Javert would demand more than a simple brush of lips. He is not successful.

.

Weddings, Valjean thinks, are probably similar in likeness to tornados. Plans are happening around him with a thousand different variables and Valjean is being sucked into it all against his will. Cosette, of course, is in the eye of the storm orchestrating it all with grace and delicate precision.

“Papa,” she says, “we must go to the tailors to buy you something appropriate.”

“Papa,” she says, “I cannot decide on the flavor of cake and Marius has terrible taste and cannot help me.”

“Papa,” she says, “will you be bringing a guest to the wedding?”

Valjean starts at the last question. “Who would I possibly bring?”

“Have you not met anyone on your nightly walks?” Cosette asks, and for a terrifying moment he believes she is referring to Javert and knows of their arrangement. “Or someone at church?” she continues. Valjean’s heart slows and he breathes easier. “You must have made some friends, Papa.”

“I am quite alone, Cosette,” he tells her, unable to keep the reassuring smile on his face for more than a moment. It feels like a lie when he has Javert. They are not friends. They have an arrangement, nothing more.

Then again, Javert had expressed interest in the wedding when Cosette and Marius were first announced engaged. Perhaps he would like to come, if only for an hour or so. It would do no harm to ask him. Cosette will certainly set aside an extra seat for Valjean’s guest anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The waltz Javert teaches is the rotary waltz and is accurate to the period. Cross-step waltz was invented later. The follower never once has to step backwards in rotary because the follower is usually a woman in a fancy gown and doing so would trip her up. Anyway I love the waltz 10/10 dance would waltz any day. This chapter more like me proclaiming my love of this dance ahaha

He does not have the chance to ask if Javert will join him at the wedding before Javert is pressing him against the closed door of his room and pulling Valjean’s cravat aside. Valjean makes a sound of surprise but makes no effort to stop him and in fact welcomes Javert’s thigh between his legs, hands grasping Javert’s hips and urging them closer. He has been thinking of this. Clearly, they both have.

“You drive me to insanity,” Javert growls. “I have been distracted by thoughts of this. How you feel and taste and how you smell—“ His sentence dissolves into a wordless sound of want that has Valjean clutching at his waist again to bring him somehow closer as Javert presses his face to the side of Valjean’s neck. He inhales Valjean’s scent, the sound of his exhale nearly a purr.

“Yes, please,” Valjean asks, tilting his head to the side to give Javert access. “Javert—"

Valjean gasps as Javert sinks his fangs into his neck. The pain is ecstasy, somehow grounding him with its sharpness even as his thoughts fly from his mind. Even before Javert unfastens his trousers and pushes them aside it is good. Valjean tests Javert’s strength, resisting him enough that Javert presses his shoulder to the door with a firm hand and a growl in reminder, and that too is good, sending that now-familiar thrill down his spine. He should not find pleasure in being pinned and helpless and he should not beg for more, yet he cannot stop the little words and gasps that escape his lips.

Valjean does not feel Javert become aroused this time, which is somewhat of a disappointment even as Javert pleasures him thoroughly. Javert does not give him the opportunity to kiss him after he finishes feeding either, instead reminding Valjean how helpless he is in a low voice directly in his ear until Valjean finishes with a groan in Javert’s hand.

“I should have warned you before I did that,” Javert says afterward, stepping back and watching Valjean catch his breath, still collapsed against the door with his trousers pushed down around his thighs, with something like satisfaction. Valjean nearly shivers at that look alone. If he were a younger man, such a look might have had Javert taking him in hand once more.

“I was willing,” Valjean says.

“And if you were not?”

“I would make it known.”

Javert narrows his eyes slightly, as if he doubts that. “You resisted me. Were you truly struggling?”

Heat returns to Valjean’s face and he shakes his head negatively, eyes darting to the floor.

One side of Javert’s lips almost curls upward. “I see.”

Valjean wishes Javert could not read him so easily. He busies himself with cleaning himself with a handkerchief, then straightening his clothing and retrieving his cravat from where Javert flung it on the floor. Usually, Javert is far more careful about such things, almost obsessively so.

“If I were unwilling, I would not be so eager for you to touch me,” Valjean says instead.

“You say you would not spread your legs for me so eagerly? Or plead with me to touch you? Or beg me to sink my fangs into your skin?” Javert asks, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. His red-stained lips twitch with constrained humor.

Valjean flushes, busying himself with retying his cravat. It is difficult without a mirror and he fumbles with the fabric.

“I remember how you would refuse to make a sound for me, how silent you were then,” Javert says.

Javert can only be speaking of the punishments in Toulon, yet it does not bring terrible memories into sudden focus as it sometimes does. Instead, Valjean gives a startled huff off laughter at the unexpected comparison.

“I see I was going about it all wrong,” Javert continues. “Now it is difficult to keep you quiet. You beg for me so easily.”

“You enjoy it when I plead with you,” Valjean points out, giving up on his cravat entirely and allowing it to hang free around his neck. Javert in good humor is a rare thing and Valjean does not want to miss it if Javert manages a smile.

Javert looks away but does not deny it. He is relaxed in a way Valjean rarely sees him, looking very nearly happy in his contentment. Valjean is struck by the nearly overwhelming urge to brush his fingertips through Javert’s thick whiskers and kiss him for the sake of kissing him. Javert would call him a fool but return the kiss regardless. Perhaps his eyes would be soft and perhaps he would allow Valjean to take his hands in his own and—

He stops himself before that thought can continue into nonsense. They do not touch each other in such a way unless Javert is feeding from him. After, they constrain themselves to touching hands while they pray, or Javert’s lingering touch on Valjean’s shoulders when he assists Valjean with his coat, or when Valjean occasionally squeezes Javert’s hand in gratefulness before leaving. Javert would not look so content if Valjean decided to kiss him now. No, he would startle and scowl at him and scold him for being so presumptuous.

“Cosette and Marius have settled on a date,” Valjean says instead of kissing him.

“Oh?”

“February eighteenth,” Valjean tells him. “Marius will be restored to full health again. Cosette is ecstatic, of course, and I find myself assisting in the preparations even though I know nothing about how weddings are held for one of Marius’s status. I am hoping I will not be required to give a speech or something similar.” He is babbling, he knows, but he cannot quite bring himself to ask what he wishes to ask. “She wants me to take dance lessons, which I am not thrilled about.”

“Dance lessons?” Javert repeats with a look of doubt. “I do not think God designed you for dancing.”

“I told Cosette much the same, but she is quite adamant about it.”

“You are much too...” Javert trails off, looking him over in a way that nearly brings a flush to Valjean’s face, “...muscled to be a fine dancer. If you were leaner, perhaps.”

“Like yourself?” Valjean asks.

“Well, yes,” Javert says. “However, I am much too tall. It makes things difficult at times.”

Valjean blinks. “Javert, do you know how to dance?”

“Of course,” Javert answers, crossing his arms over his chest. “There are things that I found useful to know over the decades. It is much better to know how to dance than to make a fool of myself if I am forced into it.” He scowls. “I cannot say I enjoyed it, but I disliked the attire and the people more than I disliked the dancing itself.”

Valjean cannot imagine Javert blending in with a ballroom full of the sort of people at such events that require dancing. Perhaps he wore a fine suit, a tailcoat even, complete with a brightly colored waistcoat and a fine cane without any of the scruff marks gained from using it for arrests. The idea is too bizarre, too odd to even take form fully.

It must show on his face for Javert’s scowl deepens. “I assure you; it was not what you are surely picturing. It was half a century ago. Fashions change and I much prefer what I am now.”

“Ah,” Valjean says simply. “I must admit, I do as well. I cannot picture you as one of those dandies.”

“That does not mean I cannot attempt to teach you something simple so you do not make a fool of yourself,” Javert says with a roll of his eyes. “Surely people still waltz.”

“That is one of the dances Cosette mentioned,” Valjean says hesitantly. “You are not obligated to teach me. I am certain I will be terrible at it.”

“It is six steps, Valjean,” Javert says. “Even you can learn six steps.”

Valjean does not know how to refuse him. It is true he is not as enthusiastic about dancing as Cosette is, but the allure of staying in Javert’s presence is too great.

“You will not suffer embarrassment at the wedding if you learn how to waltz,” Javert grumbles when Valjean hesitates for too long. He takes several steps and starts fixing Valjean’s cravat without another word. Valjean holds himself still obligingly, raising his chin to give Javert room to work.

“I would much prefer learning from someone familiar rather than a stranger,” Valjean admits.

Javert traces one of the stinging marks under Valjean’s collar, as if Valjean needs reminding at exactly how familiar they are with each other. Valjean forces himself to flick his eyes away, a flush creeping back into his face. Yes, Valjean can never quite forget how familiar he is with Javert’s fangs in his skin and Javert’s hand wrapped around his length. There are other things he is familiar with, such as the scowl Javert gives him whenever Valjean is being stubborn and the curve of his lips that threatens to turn into a smile when Valjean is particularly undone at his hands. He wishes he was familiar with Javert’s proper smile, one that is not full of bitterness or hatred but instead born from joy.

Javert hums an agreement, finishing the knot and tucking the loose ends beneath his waistcoat. He runs a hand across Valjean’s chest to smooth the fabric and Valjean cannot suppress a shiver. Javert gives him a knowing look, yet still allows his fingers to linger.

“I want you to come to Cosette’s wedding with me,” Valjean blurts suddenly.

Javert blinks, no doubt startled at Valjean’s suddenness. He draws his hand away from Valjean’s chest.

“That is to say,” Valjean corrects hurriedly, “Cosette asked if I would like to bring a guest and I would appreciate it if you agreed to accompany me.” He smiles hopefully, embarrassed by how eager he sounds.

“No,” Javert says. There is no hesitation.

“...ah,” Valjean says weakly, trying not to feel disappointed. His smile falters. Perhaps he had misjudged their relationship and Javert does not care for him as much as he has come to care for Javert. “I... I understand. I do not believe you have ever met Cosette after all.”

Javert huffs in irritation. “That is not— Have you any thought to where weddings are conducted? A _church_ , Valjean. Sacred ground. I cannot enter such places without extreme pain, perhaps even death. I promised you I would not attempt to kill myself and this would be a very painful way to just that. You forget I am not human.”

“I could not forget that,” Valjean says, feeling very foolish indeed. He frequently forgets that Javert will never accompany him to church or feel the sun on skin without pain or see himself clearly in a silver-backed mirror and a great number of other things Valjean takes for granted. “I apologize. I did not think about that aspect of your nature. Of course, I would never wish to cause you pain or put you in danger.”

Javert rolls his eyes and mutters something to himself, most certainly a comment on Valjean’s foolishness. “I cannot see how I would be a suitable guest, even if I could attend. Why would you wish me there? You have been careful about preventing your daughter from meeting me and the boy may recognize me from the night of the rebellion. Surely he remembers what I am; the schoolboys made a great spectacle of it.”

“I do not keep the two of you separate because I am ashamed of you,” Valjean says, checking the impulse to reach out and squeeze Javert’s hand. “She knows nothing of my past, and I will keep it so. If she were to meet you, it would raise questions I cannot answer about how we met and how we became acquainted and other such things. She has always been a curious child.” He smiles, thinking of her.

He has imagined, in his weaker, more wistful moments, introducing the two of them. Javert would like Cosette, he thinks. She is clever and could even soften Javert’s cold, professional exterior if given enough time. Valjean imagined them together, speaking comfortably in his sitting room or perhaps over the table at supper, and then shook such thoughts from his mind. It cannot happen. Cosette must not even guess Valjean’s criminal past. It would destroy him.

“And the boy?” Javert prompts. “How would you explain me to him? He saw me denounced at the barricade and knows I am not human. He believes you to have killed me. How would you prevent him from revealing me to a crowd of onlookers?”

“I had not thought of that either,” Valjean admits.

Javert mutters something to himself that Valjean does not catch.

“I only wished for your company,” Valjean says. “I do not know what I will do with myself once I am there. There is no one that I will know besides Cosette.”

“You are too much a hermit if I am your first choice for company,” Javert comments.

“You are not so bad.”

Javert rolls his eyes. The movement is very nearly fond, but perhaps Valjean is projecting his wishes onto such a motion. “It is late. I shall teach you the waltz after our next meeting if you are still agreeable.”

“Why would I not be agreeable?”

“You do not wish to learn.”

“I did not say that.” Valjean is willing to learn nearly anything should Javert wish to teach him. “However, I know myself enough that I may try your patience. Is a single lesson enough?”

Javert grumbles, mouth pulling downwards at the corners. “Are you suggesting more frequent meetings?”

Valjean fiddles with his cufflinks. “Perhaps.”

Javert says nothing for long moments and Valjean is afraid to look at him in case he decides to say no.

“I refuse to take from you more than once a week,” Javert says, “however, I cannot deny that you often try my patience. Twice-weekly meetings may be necessary.”

Valjean nods in agreement, cheered by the opportunity to see Javert more often, even if it is for dance lessons of all things. “Will space be an issue? I have a second address in Paris that is larger than your apartment and is attended to by no one at present.”

“Valjean, you—" Javert raises a hand to his forehead and is silent for a moment. “You have a second address, where, currently, no one is living and I can only presume it is entirely empty, and you did not think to suggest this to me earlier? Did you not think that perhaps that would be a safer option for us both than having our arrangement take place here, where we could be overheard by my neighbors at any time?”

Valjean blinks, then suddenly feels very foolish. Embarrassment heats his face. “...Ah. It did not occur to me if I am entirely honest.”

Of course, it would be safer if there was no one around to guess what their arrangement entails. It is fortunate enough that none of Javert’s neighbors are particularly curious and his landlady seems disinterested in what little personal life Javert has.

Javert looks to the ceiling and mutters something with a scowl.

“I apologize,” Valjean says weakly. “I do not know why I did not think of it—"

“Stop apologizing,” Javert grumbles. “What is the address?”

“Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7,” Valjean responds promptly. “Would you like me to write it down?”

Javert shakes his head. “I will remember,” he says as explanation. “Are you agreeable to meet there from now on? I have time on Thursday if you wish to start learning how to dance as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” Valjean agrees quickly. “If you think it best, I dare not argue with you.”

He allows himself to give Javert a reassuring smile. Javert stares at him in turn for a moment longer than acceptable before looking away and crossing his arms with a huff.

“You are a fool,” he mutters.

Valjean ducks his head away, fighting a smile that is far fonder than it has any right to be.

.

Cosette arranges a dancing tutor for him against his will. It is a very unpleasant experience that has him flushing in embarrassment nearly the entire time while consistently tripping over his own feet or nearly stepping on Cosette’s, as she volunteered to be his partner. He cannot deny he is immensely glad when the session is over.

“It is only the first lesson, Papa,” Cosette comforts him. “You will be better next time!”

Valjean is not certain he will survive another lesson like that and can only hope Javert’s lessons are less mortifying.

.

He finds Javert waiting for him in front of the gate at the arranged time, assessing the property with a scowl. His collar is drawn up around his face and his hat is drawn low over his eyebrows.

“Good afternoon, Inspector,” Valjean greets.

“Did you not think to cut the foliage?” Javert growls. “You were once a pruner. Certainly, you have not lost that knowledge. One can hardly see the house at all from here!”

“That would be my intention,” Valjean admits. “I did keep a garden here, but it must surely be overgrown by now. I have not returned here since, well.” He looks away, fitting the key into the lock on the gate instead. “Since I once glimpsed Thénardier here and thought I saw you, before the rebellion.”

Javert huffs. “I have never seen this property before in my life and Thénardier is dead. You are free to return here if that is what you wish.”

Valjean gives an uncommitted shrug and pushes the gate open. He expects Javert to storm through, but Javert only gives him an expectant look.

“Oh yes,” Valjean stumbles. “Please, come in.”

Javert glances skyward and Valjean wonders why vampires are bound by such odd rules, such as requiring an invitation to enter and why any application of silver seems to be harmful or inconvenient. Such are the ways of the supernatural, he presumes.

“You know you are always welcome into my home, wherever I may be,” Valjean adds. He does not know if such a broad invitation will work on Javert’s vampiric nature, but he is willing to try.

“You should not tempt me so,” Javert mutters, but steps through the gate anyway. “It is dangerous to say such things.”

“I specify you alone,” Valjean points out, following shortly behind him. “It is not as if I welcome just anyone into my home, vampire or not, and certainly not with as much—” He stops himself before he can say further, face heating. He can feel Javert’s gaze on him but dares not meet his eyes. “Ah, well. You know perfectly well what I mean,” he finishes.

“Indeed,” Javert says. His gaze lingers a moment further, then returns to the overgrown garden around him.

In the summer, the house is beautiful with vines snaking up the sides and their leaves throwing patterns of shadow across the walls. In winter, it is much less appealing, the vines shriveled to hard dark lines that lay stark against the white snow. The curtains are drawn, and the house lays dormant with an air of abandonment about it. Perhaps he will move here, alone, when Cosette is married. There is the gardener’s cottage at the back of the property, of course, but if he is to have Javert as a guest regularly it would be proper to live in the house itself.

The interior is cold and dusty, the furniture covered by sheets likely placed by Toussaint. Valjean leads Javert to the sitting room, the largest room in the modest house, and together they assess it. With the furniture pushed to the walls, it could possibly be a large enough space for their lesson.

“Is there kindling?” Javert asks.

“Perhaps, but I do not require a fire,” Valjean answers.

“It is winter, and it is cold. You are only human,” Javert says sternly. “You will have a fire.”

They have had this argument before and Javert will not move no matter what excuse Valjean gives him. Instead, he sets Javert on the task of moving the furniture while he attends to finding wood for a fire. It is not difficult to find and soon he is back again with his arms full of kindling.

It never ceases to amaze him how Javert is many times stronger than he appears. He is easily moving furniture that even Valjean would have a difficult time lifting on his own and he cannot help but stand in the doorway to watch him, if only for a moment. Javert will think he is procrastinating the fire if he catches Valjean watching him.

Or, perhaps, he will think something else entirely, that perhaps Valjean has other reasons for watching him so intently. Valjean would certainly not object if Javert acted on such thoughts, even if it is not the point of this meeting.

He should object. Javert should object to Valjean desiring him in that way and in others. They claim they will stop and yet they continue to damn themselves, an indulgence neither of them can afford. Knowing he is acting against God has not stopped him yet, but something must strengthen Valjean’s will. He must rise about those base desires, deny them as he has for years before. Perhaps Javert will thank him for it.

Valjean looks away before Javert can catch him staring, busying himself with the fire.

“You are making it too small,” Javert criticizes from across the room.

“I do not need much,” Valjean protests. “I do not wish to waste good wood on—"

“What is the point of keeping kindling if there is no one to use it?” Javert interrupts. “Move aside. Clearly, I cannot trust you to make yourself comfortable in your own home.”

Valjean steps away obligingly, again bowing to Javert’s stubbornness. It is far too early to start an argument with him now when they have yet to even start the dancing portion.

“Go do something with yourself,” Javert says. “A fire does not require two people staring at it for it to burn.”

Valjean would rather watch the firelight play across Javert’s face, but sternly reminds himself that he must not give in today. They must stop this and Valjean is the one who must do it. Instead, he peers around the room, looking for something to do. It is dim, but he cannot open the curtains to let the sunlight in without Javert once again scolding him for forgetting the quirks of his nature, so the fire will have to do. Perhaps a few candles as well, if he can find places to put them now that all the furniture has moved.

“What does sunlight do to you?” Valjean asks out of curiosity, lighting a few candles to place around the room. Surely it does not cause Javert to burst into flame or other such nonsense that the papers embellish, for there must be at least once where Javert has encountered direct sunlight in his work.

“It burns my skin most unpleasantly, and if I am exposed to it for too long in great amounts, I risk my entire being turning to ash,” Javert answers shortly. “I take efforts to avoid it, but I am not always entirely successful.”

“I see,” Valjean says. “I wish it did not hurt you so.”

“I wish for many things, but wishing has never done me any good,” Javert mutters bitterly, just loud enough for Valjean to hear. He expects he was not supposed to hear it, so he does not respond.

Once there is a fire roaring in the fireplace and the floor has been cleared, Javert begins their lesson.

“It is six steps, one step per beat. Very simple,” he says. “In fact, the man and the woman have the same steps, only they are three steps apart in sequence. The man will start with his left, the woman with her right. I will lead first so you may learn how it goes.”

Valjean very much doubts it is as simple as Javert claims but does not resist when Javert steps into his space and arranges them into position.

“You see how my hand is below your shoulder blades?” Javert says, tightening his hold briefly for emphasis. “This is how you control your partner so the two of you do not step on the toes of others. Her hand will be on your arm or shoulder like this,” he moves Valjean’s arm into position, “and you will lead with your other hand in hers, like so.”

They had both removed their gloves to build the fire and now their hands are clasped skin to skin. It is oddly intimate to be standing so near to one another in something so close to an embrace, yet they are far enough away that Valjean can see Javert’s face clearly. They catch each other’s eyes for a moment before Valjean forces himself to look away first.

Javert clears his throat, then continues as if they did not have the very same thought not a second ago. “We will go step by step. As I said, your steps now will be the same as mine once we are finished with a half a rotation. You will take a small step forward with your right while I step nearly in front of you with my left.”

He takes his step, pulling Valjean along with him so he is forced to stumble forward.

“Your right, Valjean,” Javert corrects.

Valjean shuffles his feet to the correct position. It puts him closer to Javert than before, his foot between Javert’s spread legs in a position that is more familiar to him if reversed.

“Step forward with your left,” Javert instructs, slowly leading him through the dance. “Now you will take a large step in front of me while I step forward, the reverse of how we started. You see how the steps are the same? It makes it simple.”

Valjean is still doubting how simple it really is. It is difficult to see how he will not crash into Javert or vise versa when the dance is brought up to tempo. Even so, he nods a wary agreement.

Now it is Javert’s turn to step between Valjean’s feet and he cannot help but glance up at Javert’s face only to find Javert already looking at him. In a moment, the look changes to something else, something sends a pleasant shiver through Valjean and has Javert’s eyes briefly shifting to wine-red before turning to their normal dark brown again.

“Stop,” Javert growls with a scowl. His hand on Valjean’s back stiffens, the hold on his hand turning from guiding to a tight grip that is nearly painful.

“Am I doing it wrong?” Valjean asks.

“It is not that,” Javert says. “You are tempting me.”

“I was unaware I was doing anything.”

Javert pulls himself away, releasing Valjean’s hand to tug his bangs back with a huff. “Of course you do not even know you are doing it,” he mutters. “You are impossible.”

“It was not my intention to distract you,” Valjean apologizes.

“You distract me constantly,” Javert mutters quietly to himself. Then, to Valjean, he says, “Let us continue and perhaps you will be less distracting when you are more familiar with the steps.”

Javert leads him through the steps more times than Valjean can count until he manages to stumble through it nearly on his own, although the hand on Valjean’s back brings him into position more often than Valjean remembers the steps. He can admit he is distracted by Javert as well being so close to him and fervently hopes his body will not betray him from simply learning a dance from him. That would only cause a great deal of distraction for them both.

Still, Javert’s hand on his back is firm and steady and much of Valjean’s thoughts commit themselves to memorizing the feel of it without his permission. Perhaps Javert is not the only one who’s thoughts are straying from the lesson.

“You are not entirely hopeless,” Javert tells him after nearly an hour, finally dropping his arms and stepping away.

“Are you quite certain?” Valjean asks incredulously. “I lost count of how many times you corrected my footwork.”

“You are not as terrible as you had me believe,” Javert says. “It did not come to me easily either. You are a more patient student than I ever was.”

Valjean can imagine that, even if he cannot imagine Javert learning how to dance.

“You are a more patient tutor than I expected,” Valjean admits.

Javert crosses his arms and looks away. “You distracted me from being properly impatient.”

“Perhaps I should not apologize for distracting you then.”

“You do it without trying! I do not understand how you manage it,” Javert says with a scowl.

Valjean fiddles with his cuffs. “It is the proximity, I believe. I am also finding myself distracted by you.”

Javert does not say anything, only digging his fingers into his arms and his frown deepening.

“Am I wrong?” Valjean asks hesitantly.

“No,” Javert says, gazing at the fire rather than looking at Valjean. “I am attempting to stop myself from dragging you into further sin now that I know you are thinking of it as well.”

“Ah,” Valjean says, his heart quickening quite suddenly and sending a flush of heat to his face. “I believe we are... perhaps leading one another, not one dragging each other. Your nature does not define you, Javert.”

Javert snorts dismissively. “Of course you say that. You do not know what a century of surviving on blood can do to a creature such as myself.”

“No, I do not,” Valjean agrees quietly. “However, I do know what kind of man you are now.”

Javert says nothing.

A log in the fire shifts and crackles and they speak no more of it.

“Next week, Valjean,” Javert says when they part ways. “We should meet here. I will send a note as usual.”

“Of course,” Valjean says, unsuccessfully fighting off the anticipation already rising in him. “Good day, Inspector.”

Javert raises a gloved hand to the brim of his hat, then turns away into the street.

—

Both the tutor and Cosette commend him on his improvement. Javert is, of course, correct in that the footwork is essentially the same for both the man and the woman, but it is the first time Valjean is experiencing it for himself. At first it feels backwards to step with the left before the right, but soon enough he is doing it somewhat correctly and somehow not stepping on Cosette’s feet nearly as often as he was.

“Oh, Papa! You are doing so well!” She praises him with a radiant smile. “You must be practicing in secret to advance so quickly!”

He flushes, both in guilt and embarrassment, and carefully admits that he has indeed been practicing. He does not mention he has had a partner while doing so, nor that he would much prefer to have Javert lead him than have Cosette follow his unsteady lead.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays my friends!
> 
> TW self harm in this chapter, because Valjean is a dumbass. I keep using Montparnasse as a villain for no good reason in my fics but _oh well_.

Javert is waiting outside the gate the following week.

“Must I invite you every time?” Valjean asks in confusion.

“No. It would simply be rude to enter without you,” Javert answers shortly, looking at Valjean as if his reasons were obvious.

“I truly do mean you are welcome any time, if I am here or if I am not,” Valjean says. He opens the gate to let them both inside.

“You are an irresponsible fool,” Javert growls, but follows him nonetheless.

Again, Javert insists on a fire before allowing himself to feed, and, as usual, the fire is much too large and will surely have the room sweltering hot in no time at all.

“If you make the fire any hotter, I will surely overheat,” Valjean comments. It is enough that they are using wood that surely has more purpose than heating a room for him alone. There is no reason to use more than necessary. Already he is considering removing his coat and loosening his cravat.

“I will not allow you to freeze out of some ridiculous notion of martyrdom,” Javert replies with his usual stubbornness.

“I am not martyring myself,” Valjean insists. “It will really be too hot in here if you insist on adding more wood.”

Javert turns to scrutinize him with narrowed eyes.

“I am telling the truth, Javert,” he says.

Javert huffs and rises to his feet. “It is difficult to know when you are saying truths or when you are saying things you only believe are true.”

Valjean chooses to ignore what Javert has told him many times before in several different ways. “You will burn yourself standing so close to a fire that hot,” he says instead.

Javert scowls and steps away from the fireplace. “I am perfectly aware of that.” He inspects his coat, as if expecting to see embers there. Now that Valjean is paying attention, there are indeed a great many small burns in the fabric most likely from just the problem Valjean stated.

Valjean decides not to comment on that habit and attempts to hide a small smile. He does not hide it especially well and Javert only glares at him.

“I planned to continue our waltz lesson afterwards,” Javert says. “If that is amiable to you.”

Planned, meaning Javert had been thinking about their meeting. Possibly in the same way Valjean tries and fails not to every week.

“I- yes, of course,” Valjean says, fumbling his words.

Javert sends him a glance as if he knows exactly what went through Valjean’s mind. There is heat in his eyes and Valjean knows his suspicions to be true.

“You must tell me if I,” Javert pauses, “indulge overmuch. I will not allow you to exert yourself if I am the one to blame for weakness and fatigue.”

“I will,” Valjean answers. Already, his pulse skips and races in his veins.

“There, you see? A lie.” Javert steps closer. “You are too willing for this. Too eager.”

Valjean can admit that. His gaze slides away in guilt. Javert’s lips curl into a smirk that has Valjean taking a breath in anticipation.

“You should know better than to lie to me, Valjean,” Javert says in a low voice as he steps yet closer and raises his hand to undo Valjean’s cravat. “I can hear your heartbeat, every breath your lungs take. There is nothing you can hide from me.”

Valjean does not trust himself to speak to that, so he nods his agreement. There should not be such pleasure in this, he attempts to remind himself. He should not be so willing to lay himself stripped and bare before Javert, and yet he cannot help himself. Javert knows him, all of him, yet has not once wavered in his position as Valjean’s protector. There is nothing left to be kept secret from him.

The cravat slips off his neck and Javert stares at the skin revealed with wine-red eyes. “Are you prepared?”

“You know I am,” Valjean responds instantly. His hands are nearly tingling with how much he wants to touch Javert, but he cannot until Javert moves first. An unwritten rule he dares not break.

Javert smirk widens.

“Indeed,” he says, and then he strikes.

Every time, Valjean forgets how fast he can be. Sharp pain turned to pleasure blooms in his neck before he is even aware Javert has moved. He gasps, hands clutching blindly at Javert’s heavy greatcoat. Javert steadies him with a hand to his waist, the other at his shoulder. It should not be so good every time. They should not be learning what pleases the other to make it as good as it is. It is unnatural in more ways than one, yet Valjean cannot think of any possible reason why they should stop.

He wants to touch so he does, smoothing his hands down Javert’s chest and then under his greatcoat to cling to his hips. Javert is surprisingly slender, but he is certainly solid. There is something appealing about that, how Javert’s form is very different from his own yet the same in function. He knows that there will not be any reciprocated arousal today, but there is still pleasure in simply reacquainting his hands with Javert. It is as if he was starving for this kind of touch and exploration after the rigid frame required for their dancing lessons.

“You make yourself a temptation in your eagerness,” Javert mutters into his neck. “You will drive me to madness.”

He says it as a fact, as if they will continue seeking each other in this way far into the foreseeable future and never succeed in stopping themselves. He says it as if they will always have each other like this, like two magnets constantly drawn to each other. He says it and it nearly sounds affectionate.

Valjean does not have the chance to respond, if he could even form the words, as Javert presses his hand against Valjean’s length and sends all intelligent thought fleeing from his mind. Instead, he groans and tries to keep the sound from turning into a needy whine.

Javert takes his time despite the little thrusts that Valjean cannot stop his hips from doing. He is only halfway to full arousal, but it will not take him much longer to get there with Javert’s attentions. Javert is content to stroke and grasp him through his trousers it seems, even with the wordless sounds of want coming from Valjean’s mouth. Javert licks the stinging wounds he created with a wide, flat tongue and smirks against Valjean’s skin.

“Javert,” Valjean pleads, now fisting his hands in Javert’s waistcoat.

“Beg for me,” Javert commands in a growl. “There is no one to overhear us here. I want to hear you beg.”

“Please,” Valjean asks easily. “Javert, please—!”

Javert rewards him with another score of fangs against his neck that tear a particularly loud moan from Valjean’s throat. Then, finally, Javert unfastens Valjean’s trousers and impatiently tugs his shirt up and out of the way.

“Yes, please Javert,” Valjean continues to beg at Javert’s first touch, completely uncaring of how needy he sounds.

“You beg so beautifully for me now,” Javert says. “I have hardly touched you and yet you are pleading for me.”

He cannot disagree, but Javert is taking him with a firm hand and nipping at his neck and Valjean is helpless to do anything but attempt to press himself closer. His eyes have long since closed and he surrenders himself to Javert’s mercy. Javert groans, and suddenly the taste of copper is on his tongue and Javert is kissing him, claiming Valjean’s mouth roughly with his tongue. Valjean cannot hold back his own groan at the sharp taste of own blood on Javert’s lips and he surrenders to this too. Javert is demanding and inpatient, hardly giving space enough to breathe between kisses. His hand on Valjean’s waist slips beneath his shirt and Valjean groans at the touch to his bare skin.

Then Javert’s hand slips to his back and Valjean freezes.

“No,” Valjean says before he can stop himself, pulling away from Javert’s lips. His heart pounds in his chest in an entirely different emotion than desire, his hand shooting to Javert’s arm in an attempt to push it away.

“What is it?” Javert growls impatiently. He remains immovable to Valjean’s efforts.

“My back, I have—" Valjean stutters, words failing him. “Please, do not touch them.”

“I know of your scars; they make no difference to me.” Javert moves his hand over them as if to prove his point, but the touch sends a shudder of revulsion through Valjean.

“Javert, I beg of you,” Valjean pleads. He cannot look at Javert and rests his forehead on Javert’s shoulder with his eyes tightly closed. His fingers curl themselves into Javert’s coat, nearly afraid Javert will stop touching him entirely with this request. “Anywhere but there. Please.”

Javert hesitates, then allows his hand to be pulled away. “As you wish,” he says, his breath brushing the shell of Valjean’s ear. “Are you willing to continue?”

They could take this moment to stop like they always say they should. It would be easy to say no and pull himself away from Javert’s touch, to will his erection away and to not stare at Javert’s lips and think of kissing him. Yet, Valjean’s hands only tighten their grip on Javert’s clothes, his entire person content with being in Javert’s reach.

“Yes,” he answers, fully aware that he makes this choice in opposition to his faith.

Javert finds his lips and kisses him again and it does not feel like sin. It is just as demanding as before, but there is a gentleness in how Javert is careful not to scrape his fangs on Valjean’s lips or press too firmly. His hand is slower on Valjean’s length but just as blissfully tight, the other spread wide on Valjean’s abdomen as if Javert too cannot satisfy his hunger for Valjean’s form.

“Your scars do not define you,” Javert mutters between kisses.

“They do,” Valjean argues back, for how can they not? His shameful history is permanently written on his skin for all to see should he become careless.

“You are far more than an ex-convict,” Javert growls, biting at his lips as if in reprimand yet still careful to not draw blood. “You are an annoyance, the most irritating man I have ever known. You are—"

Valjean takes hold of Javert’s cravat and kisses him firmly to stop the words flowing from his mouth. He should not say things like that, things that sound like insults to anyone else but are nearly a confession in Valjean’s ears.

“Do not say that,” he pleads. His affection for Javert must stay unrequited. He does not deserve to have Javert even like this as a simple arrangement gone awry. They are damning themselves by admitting such things.

Javert falls quiet, distracting Valjean with his possessive hands and hungry mouth until he is begging Javert for release. Valjean’s hands have found their way to Javert’s bare torso as well, eagerly memorizing his strange cool temperature and every flaw or scar he can find there. There are not many, which makes perfect sense given Javert’s healing abilities, but he wants to know the story behind every one of them.

“Are you close?” Javert asks him low in his ear.

“Yes, please Javert,” Valjean groans. “I want- I want you to bite me, please—”

“I will not take more from you today,” Javert objects, yet his lips drop to graze the unmarred side of Valjean’s neck.

“I want it,” Valjean begs. His hands clutch mindlessly at Javert’s torso, his fingertips pressing so hard into Javert’s skin they would no doubt leave bruises if Javert were human. “Javert, please...”

Javert gives and bites down with a growl. It is that pain which pushes Valjean over the edge and he spends himself in Javert’s hand with a cry of pleasure. His legs shake with the force of it and leans heavily on Javert to remain standing. Javert does not object, steadying him with a hand to his waist while he finishes licking the most recent wound on Valjean’s neck.

“You foolish idiot,” Javert growls when he is finished. There is no anger behind it. “You tempt me into taking more than I should. By now you should know I could take enough to incapacitate you if you beg me like you did.”

“You asked me to beg,” Valjean points out. He is breathless and still holding firmly to Javert while his legs find themselves again.

Javert snorts a dismissal. “You would have begged anyway.”

“Only because you enjoy it.”

Javert does not respond to that and they separate from each other, ignoring how their hands linger. They both look quite thoroughly debauched with waistcoats wrinkled and shirts untucked. Javert’s cravat is a half-tied mess around his neck and Valjean’s is missing entirely. It is an unusual sight to see Javert in such a state of disorganization and Valjean is starting to understand why Javert enjoys seeing him so undone.

Valjean turns away to clean and dress himself, using the mirror on the wall Cosette insisted upon purchasing to straighten himself. Even his hair is mussed and tangled and he runs his fingers through it in place of a brush to tame it. Javert’s hair is much more sensible, he thinks, as it only seems to get tangled when Valjean truly forgets himself and fists his hands in it.

“Your cravat is crooked,” Javert says from far closer than Valjean remembered him being.

Valjean starts and whirls around to see Javert standing just behind him, somewhat more organized himself. He cannot help but glance back in the mirror where Javert should be visible, but there is only empty space where he is standing. There is no sign that Javert even exists in the mirror’s reflection.

“My apologies for startling you,” Javert says. “Normal mirrors cannot show my reflection.”

“You did inform me of that, yes,” Valjean says, turning away from the mirror. “It is different to know it than to see for myself.”

“It can make things inconvenient at times.” Javert reaches out to retie Valjean’s cravat. “You always tie it wrong so it is never straight.”

“I was never taught,” Valjean admits, raising his chin to allow him. “I spent several hours attempting to teach myself in Montreuil-sur-Mer when I first settled there, and no one has ever corrected me since.”

“It seems I must teach you how to properly dress in addition to dancing,” Javert says, easily finishing Valjean’s cravat with practiced motions. “That yellow coat of yours, for instance, is atrocious.”

“What is wrong with it?”

Javert levels a long-suffering look at him. “Everything, Valjean. The color is horrible, the cut is outdated by nearly a decade, and it does not even fit your shoulders properly not to mention how the sleeves are an inch short and the buttons are of different sizes. I know you to be more than wealthy enough to afford a new coat and yet I continually see you in that yellow monstrosity.”

“I was unaware that it offends you so much.”

“I would very much like to see it burned.”

Valjean cannot help but smile at such a deadpan statement. “Perhaps I will have to purchase a new one if you insist upon it.”

“I do,” Javert grumbles. “Madeleine’s green coat was much more sensible.” Then he gestures to the mirror. “Finish straightening yourself.”

Valjean does not obey immediately, unwilling to look at his own face especially when Javert will not be reflected beside him. Javert’s waistcoat is still rumpled and his collar has not been straightened. There is no window in which to see his reflection this time unless he wishes to face sunlight.

“May I?” Valjean asks, gesturing to Javert’s collar.

Javert touches it and scowls when he finds it crooked. “If you must.”

Valjean decides that yes, he must, and reaches out to fix it. Javert rolls his eyes but stands still for him. After straightening his collar, Valjean reasons that Javert would never be seen in something so obviously rumbled and smooths his hands down his waistcoat in an effort to force it flat again. It is somewhat of an indulgence to do it a second time and his hands may linger longer than is appropriate, but Javert says nothing and by the time Valjean is finished he looks just as he always does.

“There,” he says. “Now you look presentable.”

“As you say,” Javert acknowledges. “Is there a reason you are avoiding your reflection?”

Valjean’s eyes slide away from Javert’s face. “Of course not.”

“You are lying again,” Javert says. There is no stabbing accusation in his tone, only fact. “It cannot only be my lack of a reflection that unnerves you so.”

“I do not find mirrors to be especially friendly,” Valjean admits. “I have not liked them since, well.” He lifts his shoulders in a tired shrug.

“I cannot see why,” Javert says, crossing his arms. “You are not ugly nor have any obvious disfigurements. More importantly, you age as you should and are not forced to watch yourself stay looking half as young as you are for decades on end when all you wish is for is—” He stops himself with a frown. “You know well my disgust for this curse.”

“I wish you would not say those things,” Valjean says.

Javert scoffs. “That I despise what I am and what my nature demands of me?”

“Of course not. I cannot blame you for that, even if you refuse to believe me when I say you are far greater than your curse,” Valjean says. “I am wishing you will cease wanting death, if only temporarily.”

Javert does not reply for a long moment. “I do not know how to stop,” he says at last. “Some humans desire fame or fortune. I desire a release from the bindings placed upon me from birth. I have lived for over a century, Valjean, and I am tired of fighting my very nature for the right to live how I wish to.”

That is understandable, even if Valjean does not like that Javert has looked to suicide to end his curse.

“When I look at my reflection,” Valjean starts softly, “I am always expecting to see the pruner from Faverolles with a loving family and a simple life. Instead, I see a convict or broken man or a thief or a false mayor. I never seem to see myself.”

“You are all of those things,” Javert says. “I look at you and see a convict and a thief.”

Valjean cannot repress a flinch at his words.

“I also see a fine mayor, a fair factory owner and a good father. I see someone who saved my life not once but twice, and somehow continues to associate himself with me despite knowing what I am,” Javert continues, ignoring Valjean’s reaction entirely. “I did not know you as a pruner or whatever you were off doing in the years between Arras and last summer, but you are all those things as well. I see a good man.”

“You say I am a convict and a thief. I cannot also be a good man,” Valjean objects.

“What do you think drove me to the bridge that night?” Javert growls. “It was that very question. There were weeks where I did not know what to think of you, and by extension, any of the hundreds of people I have arrested in my life. You are a paradox I did not understand. I still do not understand! I only know you are somehow both. You have changed and are no longer the man you were.”

Valjean glances at his reflection. He is old, his face wrinkled and his hair has been white for a decade. There is nothing special about his appearance and he does not know why Javert has decided his face is not ugly. He does not see any of the people Javert mentioned, only an old man. A stranger. The mirror shows him alone, Javert absent, in his abandoned house with the curtains drawn and the furniture covered with dusty sheets. It is a sure insight to his future after Cosette is married. He turns away.

“I do not know what you see in me,” he says quietly.

Javert huffs irritably but does not respond. There is still a smear of blood on the corner of his mouth that he failed to clean without use of a reflection.

“You have, ah,” Valjean says, pointing to the spot on his own face.

“What?” Javert asks impatiently.

“It is just, ah, you only,” Valjean says awkwardly. “May I?”

“Do as you wish,” Javert says with an annoyed growl.

He does not quite know what comes over him. Instead of using a handkerchief or his thumb, Valjean steps forward and kisses the corner of his mouth softly to clean the spot away with a flick of his tongue, tasting copper. It is easier than it should be. It only takes a moment and Valjean ducks his head in embarrassment when he pulls away.

Javert does not speak for a stunned moment. “Is it—" He clears his throat. “Is it gone, then?”

“Ah,” Valjean says, glancing up at him for a quick moment before looking away again, his face warm. “Nearly. There is still a little red.”

“Where?”

Javert should surely know where the spot is after that, but he is looking at Valjean and makes no move to attempt to scrub the stain away himself. Is he inviting Valjean to kiss him again? Today is only the second time they have kissed and, like everything else they do when Javert feeds from him, such an action feels off-limits unless they are grasping at each other. However, Javert has not reprimanded him nor has he called him foolish or any other such thing.

“It is, ah,” Valjean says, once again drawing close so Javert may pull away if he wishes. Javert remains still and says nothing, watching him with some emotion in his eyes Valjean cannot place. “It is here,” Valjean says in almost a whisper nearly against Javert’s mouth and kisses him again.

It is just as soft as before, hesitant as their previous kisses were demanding. Valjean allows himself to linger, encouraged by Javert’s stillness. He had not noticed before, but Javert’s lips are dry and soft. They are not stiff and hard as one would assume from his expressions but have some give when Valjean presses against them with his tongue.

He again draws away before Javert reacts, somehow more embarrassed by these two shy, chaste kisses than when he was begging for Javert to touch him.

“Gone,” Valjean says, softer than intended.

“Thank you,” Javert says, equally quiet. Valjean feels as if he should be the one thanking Javert for allowing him to kiss him like that.

“Yes, ah, well,” Valjean says awkwardly. He swallows and his eyes dart away. “Shall we have our dancing lesson?”

“It is the waltz, Valjean, as it is the only dance I am somewhat competent at,” Javert corrects with a mutter, but leads him to the center of the room to begin. They do not mention those kisses and hardly dare to look at each other while they start the lesson. Javert does not ask Valjean if he wishes to try leading and Valjean is more than content to stay following.

After an hour or so, Javert calls the lesson to a close. By the end of it, Valjean is reasonably confident in his ability to follow, but still unsure about leading. They somehow do not crash together when the dance is brought up to tempo, but instead use each other as a counterweight to spin. There is no music, and Javert tells him sternly that he will not even attempt to hum a suitable tune. Valjean hopes that it will be easier with a beat to follow.

There are moments, brief and far between when he is not tripping over his own or Javert’s feet, that he understands what Cosette sees in dancing. In those moments, it is like they move as one body, perfectly in sync with the other’s steps. It is exhilarating, like being caught up in a whirlwind, and for the first time Valjean does not wish to stop.

He is also entirely certain that he would give nearly anything to kiss Javert like that again. Usually when he took a wrong step it was because he was staring at Javert’s lips.

“You are not as terrible as you were,” Javert tells him.

“I should hope I am,” Valjean says. “Cosette told me she suspected me of practicing in secret last time.”

“If you told her that I am the one teaching you, I am canceling our arrangement,” Javert threatens with a scowl.

“Of course not. I did admit to practicing, but I did not tell her I had a partner.”

“Then she probably suspects you are seeing someone,” Javert tells him, crossing his arms. “It is incredibly difficult to practice without a partner and improve without experience.”

“Ah,” Valjean says, spirits falling. “I did not think of that.”

A corner of Javert’s mouth turns upwards. “There are reasons why I am an Inspector, after all.”

“I have never doubted your abilities, Javert,” Valjean says.

“Yet I did not discover you were Madeleine until many months into my residence in M sur M,” Javert says with a twist of his lips. “I am still annoyed I did not catch onto you immediately.”

“Perhaps I was simply a very good actor?” Valjean suggests.

“Valjean, you are a terrible actor,” Javert says bluntly. “I believe I was more concerned with how I was going to satisfy my curse in a place with such a low population and distracted by that damned illegal enchantment trade in the lower town that I could never completely eradicate. After deciding you were a lesser threat than some of the other, more immediate problems, I simply ignored you.”

“Are you saying it was luck?”

“Of course it was luck. I may have continued letting other problems come before figuring you out had it not been for you foolishly showing off your strength lifting that cart.”

“Yes, well,” Valjean says. “I cannot regret my actions when they saved a life.”

Javert rolls his eyes. “You have always been a reckless fool.”

—

The following week, Valjean is busy with wedding preparations. He will not see Javert for a fortnight at least, which seems entirely far too long to go without seeing each other. Cosette distracts him with task after task, yet he finds himself sending a letter to Javert in the middle of the week babbling about what things must be done and how complicated weddings are. Javert replies within a day, dryly assuring him that there are very few deaths that happen when preparing a wedding and that he is quite certain Cosette has everything in hand. It lifts his spirits far more than it should for being a simple letter.

“ _You are worrying too much_ ,” Javert writes. “ _I do not even have to see you to know it. You would not be writing me if you were not anxious.”_

It is natural for a father to be anxious before his daughter is married, Valjean is aware, but he knows he is losing her. Cosette will be safe with Marius, far away from Valjean. Javert says he will keep Valjean safe to the best of his abilities as Inspector, but Valjean is still an ex-convict and technically still a wanted man. If someone found out his past, Cosette could be in danger. Or, worse, she would find out his past and turn her back on him. He cannot bear to have that happen, even if it means slowly removing himself from her life first.

He sends a reply to Javert’s letter a few days later if only to distract himself, and again Javert responds promptly.

“ _You have four more days, ~~Val~~ Fauchelevent_,” Javert reminds him. “ _I have faith that you can survive four days until the wedding. It is not so difficult._ ”

It feels like the most difficult thing he has ever faced.

He decides to face Marius instead, cornering him and spilling his true history to him. Once he knows, surely he will want to keep Cosette away from him and see to her safety. Marius does not believe him at first, but Valjean impresses upon him that what he says is the truth, very nearly revealing the scars on his wrists that he has not shown anyone save for Javert. It is only after Valjean nearly loses his temper, as his emotions were set to reveal themselves as either anger or tears and in this instance he chooses anger, that Marius believes him.

“You killed the vampire at the barricade,” Marius says.

“Yes,” Valjean lies. He dislikes thinking of Javert at the barricade, held helpless with silver-threaded rope and his possessions taken from him. Even now, it seems a cruel punishment for being discovered.

“I believe you,” Marius says. His eyes are hard. It is a strange look on him as he is often so much more open.

“You must not tell Cosette,” Valjean insists. “You can do anything to me, but Cosette must never know the truth about me.”

“I swear it,” Marius agrees. “Cosette will never know.”

When Valjean leaves, he finds he must stop to rest before he is even halfway home. His limp is more pronounced than usual and his knee aches as if remembering the heavy chains he wore as a convict. The pain distracts him from imagining a future without Cosette.

Once home, he remembers another problem. There will be documents to sign at the wedding, documents he cannot sign as none of his false names have any living legal status and he certainly cannot sign them with _Jean Valjean_ unless he wishes to be arrested. He does not dare ask Javert for a name to write instead of his own, as surely Javert would only be angered if asked to help him break the law. There must be a way to avoid signing all together.

He first forms an idea when he accidentally cuts himself while cutting an apple into slices for himself. The injured finger is easily bandaged and will be in working order by the next day, but Valjean looks at and wonders. If his arm were in a sling, surely that would be a reasonable excuse to not sign the papers? The only question would be how to make the injury seem legitimate.

Two days before the wedding, Valjean is standing in the kitchen with a knife poised over his right wrist. It should not be so different from when Javert slices his skin with his fangs, he reasons. This cut will be longer, possibly deeper than most of what Javert inflicts on him, but it is essentially the same process.

It is decidedly not the same as having Javert’s fangs in his wrist. The knife clatters to the counter and Valjean grits his teeth against the pain, his eyes prickling with tears. There is so much more pain than Valjean expected and far less of the sharp pleasure he has come to associate with such wounds. He does not make a sound as he presses a cloth to his arm until it stops bleeding, the pain fading to a dull throb. The cut runs a shaky diagonal across the back of his wrist, cutting through the existing scars. When he goes to wrap it in bandages, he finds himself covering the scars from prison as well. He will claim injury to his wrist; enough to be unable to sign but not so terrible he will have to deny Cosette the waltz he worked so hard to learn.

Cosette exclaims over his unfortunately timed accident, but Valjean reassures her that he will still be able to attend the wedding. That night, he slowly and carefully writes a letter to Javert, his wound protesting, which does not include a single mention of what he has done to himself. Javert will not be pleased when he inevitably learns of it, but this way Valjean is not breaking the law nor exposing himself. Javert must understand that.

“ _I am not ready to lose Cosette_ ,” he writes. “ _I do not think I will ever be ready to part from her. She is the best of my life and I have loved her as my own. I can only pray that Fantine is as proud of Cosette as I am.”_

He posts it the next morning and spends the day attempting to gather his memories of her. Cosette rose like the sun in his life, teaching him how to love once more. Without her, he is sure everything will seem dimmer in comparison. That night, he opens the valise that still holds the first dress he bought her when they left Montfermeil together and carefully lays it out on his bed. It is then that he can no longer hold himself together and he weeps for the loss to come, for how empty his life will be without her in it.

Javert’s reply comes the next day and Valjean manages to read it before he leaves his apartment.

“ _You are not losing her, you imbecile_ ,” is the first thing Javert writes to him. “ _If she loves you even half as much as you adore her, then she will always want you in her life. Daughters do not lose their fathers when they gain husbands. You are being more ridiculous than usual in this. I am almost tempted enough to brave entering the ceremony to shake sense into your moronic head, and we both know how terribly that would unfold. Do not do anything foolish.”_

Valjean is reasonably certain that his arm would count as something foolish. However, Javert does not seem to understand how this must happen. He will keep Cosette safe, even at the price of his own happiness. He cannot be selfish with her, as much as he wishes he could.

The ceremony is beautiful and Cosette is radiant in her wedding dress. Valjean is not surprised to find himself weeping once more during the ceremony, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief. He is indeed excused from signing the documents and Gillenormand signs them in his steed while Valjean looks on and gives his blessing. Then the reception, where Cosette calls on Valjean to dance with her not only once but twice, smiling at him the entire time. His aching arm is a small price to pay for her smile. He is still not talented at leading the waltz, but Cosette is skilled enough to make up for his lack of experience.

There are far too many people present, most of whom are acquaintances of Gillenormand and have never met either bride nor groom. Valjean hides in the corner of the ballroom, holding a glass of wine in front of his face to ward off anyone seeking conversation. It is now that Valjean wishes Javert had accepted to at least come to the reception so he would have someone to talk with to pass the time. If only the schoolboys had not made such a production out of Javert’s vampirism at the barricade, perhaps Marius would have simply assumed him to be human. Admitting he did not kill Javert would be much easier if he were human.

The hours pass by slower than Valjean thought possible, but finally it is an acceptable hour for him to leave. He does not tell Cosette when he departs, allowing her and her new husband to start a new chapter of their lives together, one which does not include him.

“ _It is done_ ,” he writes. He sits at his desk for an hour and cannot think of anything more to add. There is a melancholy fog in his mind that makes thinking difficult. It is past midnight when the candle on his desk flickers out and he finally retires to bed.

In the morning, he sends his note off to Javert. There is nothing more to be said besides those three words. He cannot bring himself to leave his apartment for the rest of the day. His mind is scattered, and he finds himself twice staring at the page of a book without seeing any of the words on the page.

The following morning, Javert has written back to him.

_“I will not waste ink and paper telling you once again how foolish you are being when I will be able to tell you in person in only a few days’ time. I do not understand why you are intent on removing yourself from your daughter’s life when you clearly adore her unless this is yet another one of your ridiculous acts at martyrdom. Do not be foolish, Fauchelevent.”_

Clearly, Valjean will have to explain to Javert why he must allow Cosette to leave him step by step when they next see each other. Javert is an intelligent man; surely, he will be able to see the logic behind Valjean’s actions. Valjean is not looking forward to that argument, for it surely will be an argument.

The next few days pass in a blur and suddenly it is time to go to his property on the Rue de l'Homme Arme to see Javert. He is even late in leaving his apartment; something nearly unheard of since they began these meetings. Javert will be cross with him for being late in addition to his arm and how he has isolated himself from Cosette since the wedding. Still, at least he will see Javert.

—

Valjean does not quite make it to the Rue de l’Homme Arme.

“Stop right there, Monsieur.”

Valjean turns, unable to help his curiosity, and is greeted by the sight of a young man— no, a beautiful woman, one with streaks of grey in her hair. There is something odd about her, like she is somehow transparent around the edges of her form, and Valjean blinks rapidly to clear his vision. It is not only her that seems off as there is a hazy feeling in his head somehow, like he has had a glass of wine but without the taste of it on his tongue. It reminds him, oddly, of the time Javert took his memories away.

“May I help you?” Valjean asks in confusion. There is something not right here, but he does not quite know what.

“Oh, that does not work on you, I see,” the voice says, and then the woman and the odd feeling in his head are gone and in her place is the young man. He is handsome, with pale skin and dark hair, dressed in clothes tailored to his figure.

Valjean blinks again, startled at the change. “Pardon?”

“You knew it was an illusion,” the man says. “Obviously, we are going to do this the difficult way now that you know what I am.”

The man smiles, revealing long, sharp canines. A vampire.

“Ah,” Valjean says. He is not trapped, not technically, however there is no one in the street and Valjean knows well that even this slender vampire has more than enough speed and power to overtake him.

“You are familiar with my kind,” the vampire continues.

“...Yes,” Valjean says. This vampire may not be as forgiving to his lies as Javert is.

“Then you should know what I want from you.” He smiles again. If not for the fangs, it might be considered charming. “You should know better than to walk the streets at night with a wound like that, Monsieur. I could smell you from across the Seine.”

Valjean looks down at his bandaged arm. Now he knows why Javert has always been careful to clean his wounds before allowing him to walk home. In his chest, his heart pounds.

“Could I not convince you to forgo feeding tonight?” Valjean asks, knowing there is a slim chance he will survive this night. His heart is galloping in his chest, the pounding of it like a drumbeat in his ears. “I am no young man.”

“I do not care about age,” the vampire says flippantly. “I am hungry tonight and you already smell of blood.”

“I see,” says Valjean.

So he will not leave this street alive. He will not see Cosette again, nor Javert.

“You are not attempting to flee,” the vampire comments with a frown. “Most humans flee.”

“I know you are much faster and stronger than I. There is no point to fleeing,” Valjean answers, somehow keeping his voice even and conversational when he is terrified of what is surely going to happen to him. “If I am to die, may I have a moment to pray?”

The vampire considers this. “You intrigue me, so I will allow it. Be quick.”

Valjean bows his head and prays for Cosette’s continuing happiness and Javert’s forgiveness for being the first of them to perish. He then asks God for forgiveness for loving Javert, for there can be no other name for the emotions he feels towards his once-pursuer. The Church may say such emotions for another man is sinful, but even now Valjean has doubts that love of any kind can be sin. If he is to die, he will allow himself to think the words at last and surrender to what he has denied for so long. He loves Javert for all that he is, from his stubborn belief in Valjean to is irritable temper. Finally, he prays for a swift, painless death. The last is not so much a prayer but a plea.

“I am finished,” he says, opening his eyes.

“I presume you would rather walk than be dragged?” the vampire asks. “Killing you here would be senseless. Anyone could simply walk past and see.”

“Where will you have me go?” He sees no point in arguing. He has made his final prayers and there is no escape for him. His heart hammers in his chest like a fluttering bird in a cage.

“That alley.” The vampire points. “Come along now. We do not have all night.”

Valjean forces his feet to move, knowing he is walking to his death. “Might I know your name before I die?” he asks.

The vampire smiles at him. “You are a strange one. I am Montparnasse.”

“Ah,” Valjean says. “I have heard of you.”

“I am flattered,” Montparnasse says with a grin. They are in the alley now, and in the dark shadows it is easy to see the red glow of Montparnasse’s eyes. The color of fresh blood. “It is almost a shame to kill you. I have enjoyed our brief time together, Monsieur, but I am so terribly hungry tonight.”

He is, perhaps, even faster than Javert and not at all as careful. Valjean’s throat is instantly in agony as the vampire tears into him without any regard for how much blood is wasted. Montparnasse has him pinned to the alley wall quite firmly and Valjean’s instinctual resistance is fruitless. He cries out in pain, but just as quickly Montparnasse is muffling him with a hand over his mouth.

Valjean had thought he would die by Javert’s fangs in a filthy alley last June. Instead he is here, dying by the fangs of a different vampire in another filthy alley. Perhaps he was half-right.

He does not know how long he suffers in agonizing pain, but he is thankful when he finally slips into oblivion and the world fades around him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally spaced yesterday whoops, sorry about that!

“—needs rest!”

“He has had enough rest!”

“The doctor said—"

“Damn the doctor!”

Valjean wakes slowly, his awareness slowly starting to come back to him. The words around him sound as if they are far away and unimportant. He wants to return to sleep, but the voices continue to argue.

“You will disturb him with your shouting, Monsieur.”

“I am an Inspector of the first precinct, and I do not give a damn if I disturb him! Let him be disturbed!”

“Monsieur Fauchelevent will not appreciate that tone, Monsieur le Inspector.”

“I have had much more experience dealing with Monsieur Fauchelevent than you, Madame.”

A huff of breath. “I will give you one more hour, but then you must return tomorrow if you wish to see him.”

The door slams shut. Soon after, there is a growl of frustration from above him.

“You are driving me to madness, and you are not even awake to see it.”

The bed, for it surely he must be in a bed, Valjean reasons, dips next to him. He becomes aware of himself at that motion, his body laying still beneath what must be a great number of blankets. There is a light pressure at his wrist, feeling his pulse, which remains even as the voice falls silent.

“Damn you, Valjean,” it says in a much quieter tone, one that wavers with an emotion that is certainly not anger.

The last time Javert’s voice wavered like that, he was about to kill himself. Even only half-conscious, Valjean’s heart quickens in fear.

“Valjean?” The touch on his wrist changes to covering Valjean’s hand entirely with his own.

It is only with great effort that Valjean manages to grasp Javert’s hand in his own. He should not be so tired upon waking.

“You live,” Javert says in a relieved exhale, taking his hand in a crushing grip. Strangely, Javert’s hand feels warm when it never has in the past. “I was unsure if I was quick enough to reach you in time and bring you to a doctor.”

It is then that Valjean’s mind becomes aware of the throbbing pain at his neck and the swath of bandages covering it. That is enough to make him grimace and shift.

“Stay still,” Javert commands him with a hand to his shoulder, keeping him flat in bed. “You have lost too much blood and must stay in bed until the doctor proclaims you well.”

He opens his eyes, blinking at the candlelight that momentarily burns. They are in his rooms, Valjean’s two silver candlesticks flickering with light. Javert is sitting next to him, still holding Valjean’s hand. The room feels cooler than it should, especially since there is one of Javert’s roaring fires in the fireplace.

“You have been unconscious for several hours,” Javert informs him. “It is nearly one in the morning.”

“I apologize for worrying you,” Valjean says. His throat feels rubbed raw and his voice is hoarse.

Javert scowls. “Do not apologize to me. You have more than enough to explain without needless apologies.” He releases Valjean’s hand at last and stands to start pacing by Valjean’s bed.

“I left the Rue de l’Homme Arme when you did not appear ten minutes or so after our arranged time,” he says. “I thought, perhaps, something was preventing you and you sent a note to my lodgings informing me you were not going to be there that night. It is lucky I chose a longer path to walk or I would not have smelled your blood and known you were in danger. I could smell your fear from three streets away. You were already unconscious by the time I arrived.”

Valjean shivers, remembering how ruthlessly Montparnasse attacked him.

“I cannot hope to overpower one such as your attacker,” Javert continues. “I may be stronger than a human, but I am weak among other vampires. It is the price for constantly keeping myself on the edge of starvation. Instead, I threatened him with my rosary as an officer of the law and claimed to have silver bullets in my pistol. He fled quickly enough, even though my rosary is nowhere near powerful enough to be a true deterrent.”

“It was Montparnasse,” Valjean says.

Javert turns sharply to look at him. “How do you know that?”

“I asked his name.”

“Did you sit down and have a friendly chat before he went to kill you?” Javert asks incredulously. “You idiotic—"

“I could not outrun him,” Valjean interrupts. “I was attempting to buy myself a few more minutes of life.”

Javert crosses his arms and grumbles something Valjean cannot hear. Valjean takes the moment to rest his eyes. Already, he is exhausted from even this short conversation.

“Rest tonight,” Javert instructs him after a moment. “You must recover your strength. I will return tomorrow.”

“Do you not have work?”

Javert scowls. “I have worked in the police for nearly a century. Surely I am allowed to write to my superiors and request a week’s absence when I have never once done so before.”

“You should not—" Valjean protests.

“Your health is more important than writing reports,” Javert snaps over Valjean’s words. “I will see you tomorrow.”

He is close enough that Valjean can reach out and take Javert’s hand without much effort. Javert stills instantly at the touch, allowing Valjean to do whatever he wishes with him.

“Thank you,” Valjean says quietly. “I am extraordinarily lucky to be alive because of you.”

He brings Javert’s hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to his knuckles. Javert’s fingers twitch against his mouth, but he does not pull away.

“You should not thank me just yet,” Javert says. His voice is oddly rough. “I am not quite finished lecturing you on your foolishness. I specifically told you not to be foolish, and then I was forced to find you half-dead in a pool of your own—" His fingers tighten on Valjean’s hand. “You do not know how difficult that was for me.”

Valjean presses another kiss to his knuckles in apology. “I will try not to worry you further.”

“You worry me constantly,” Javert mutters.

Valjean attempts to smile at him, but already he is slipping back into sleep. His hand relaxes its grip, but he does not remember Javert pulling away from his grasp.

.

The next time he wakes, his room is full of sunlight marking it at least late morning. Javert is already present, standing in one corner of the room where the sunlight cannot reach him. He has not removed his coat and hat, no doubt using them to protect himself from the sun, and his arms are crossed over his chest. He does not seem to realize Valjean has awoken and instead appears to be glaring at the opposite wall, his lips moving as he no doubt is talking to himself in a mutter as he sometimes does.

“Good morning,” Valjean says, attempting to raise himself into a sitting position. He finds his arms weak and even that small exertion has him starting to become dizzy.

Javert’s eyes flick over to him, and even in the light Valjean notes they have hints of red in them, like the color of old blood.

“Did you not feed?” Valjean asks. “It has nearly been three weeks! You must be—"

“I am perfectly aware,” Javert growls. “I will feed when you are not on the brink of death.”

“I am no longer on the brink of death!” Valjean argues. “You should not be starving yourself simply because I am recovering.”

“Yet I cannot leave you alone in case you do something foolish!” Javert snaps. “Whatever happened your arm nearly required stitches and you did not think to inform me that you were injured! Did you somehow forget how I assist in healing you after each of our meetings?”

Valjean looks away, fiddling with the hem of the blankets. “I did not forget. I knew you were going to be upset with me so I did not—"

“Of course I am upset with you!” Javert snarls. His teeth gleam in the sunlight and has Valjean flinching away from him. “What reason could you possibly have for not informing me?”

“There was no other way,” Valjean says, recovering himself. “I could not sign the documents at the wedding. None of my aliases exist legally save for one, and the true owner of that name is long since dead. With my arm injured and in a sling, it made it impossible for me to sign myself. I gave my verbal blessing and someone else signed in my steed.”

“You did this to yourself?” Javert growls, gesturing jerkily to Valjean’s wrapped arm.

“Yes,” Valjean admits quietly.

Javert does not say anything for long moments and Valjean does not dare look at him.

“It was the only way,” Valjean says again.

“How can you say that?” Javert snaps. “You were not forced to injure yourself! Did you not think to simply wear the bandages and the sling without any real injury to yourself? There is always another way.” Javert scowls at him. “At the very least, you could have informed me so you would not be walking about at night with an open wound attracting all the vampires in Paris to you. Now, I cannot do anything about it because the doctor has seen it and will think it suspicious if it heals faster than it should.”

“I apologize—"

“I do not want your damn apologies!” Javert shouts, his gloved hand making a sharp cutting motion in the air.

There is a knock at the door, and then Valjean’s landlady enters holding a tray laden with a simple bowl and spoon.

“I heard your shouting from downstairs,” she says with a disapproving frown. “Is he disturbing your rest, Monsieur Fauchelevent?” She puts the tray on his bedside table a little harder than necessary, spilling broth out of the bowl.

Javert is glaring at her and her lips are pursed. Valjean looks between them with confusion.

“I am reprimanding him for his idiotic behavior,” Javert mutters, recrossing his arms. “My shouting is perfectly justifiable.”

Valjean’s landlady looks less than convinced.

“Thank you for the meal, Madame,” Valjean says, ignoring Javert entirely.

“If you need assistance,” her gaze slides to Javert and she narrows her eyes, “I will be downstairs and listening for your call.”

“Thank you,” Valjean says again. “I am sure Inspector Javert can perform all the assistance I require at the moment.”

She does not look happy at that. “If you insist.”

She gives Javert another pointed look, then leaves and closes the door behind her.

“What did you do to my landlady?” Valjean cannot help but ask.

Javert huffs. “She did not appreciate the fact I refused to leave when you were still unconscious.”

“There was no reason for you to stay,” Valjean says.

“There was every reason for me to stay,” Javert grumbles.

Valjean does not know what to say to that. Instead, he makes another attempt at pulling himself into a sitting position.

“You will strain yourself,” Javert chastises, walking to his side. “You will be very weak for several days and I will not see you injure yourself again.”

He assists Valjean up with no effort at all, wrapping an arm around Valjean’s broad shoulders and practically lifting him into position. One hand remains on Valjean’s shoulder even after Valjean settles himself, the touch strangely light as if Javert is afraid Valjean is too weak to handle the simple weight of his hand.

“You should drink your broth before it becomes cold,” Javert says.

“As you say, Inspector,” Valjean says, reaching for the bowl. He had not realized how cold his hands were until he felt the warmth of the bowl. Of course Javert’s skin would feel warm against his own if his own body is not at his usual temperature.

Javert says nothing as he eats, finally withdrawing his hand from Valjean’s shoulder with a sudden motion after several minutes as if just realizing it was there. He then crosses his arms and scowls at the fire, lips curved into a frown and thick eyebrows pressing together. Valjean watches him from his peripheral. He has seen Javert upset, of course, but never like this. Javert has not even withdrawn into the shadows where he would be out of the sun, instead lingering by the bed like he is obligated to be there as Valjean’s protector.

“You may draw the curtains, if you would be more comfortable,” Valjean says.

Javert jerks at the sound of his voice. “My comfort is of no concern.”

Valjean sets the nearly empty bowl aside, his hands trembling with the effort, then looks back up at him with as much of a smile as he dares allow himself. “Javert, it is my deepest wish that you be made as comfortable as possible.”

Javert blinks and the scowl is gone from his face for a moment, then forces his face back into a frown. It is not convincing.

“I am not—"

“Please,” Valjean insists.

Javert runs a hand through his bangs, nearly knocking off his hat, and looks away. The frown wavers on his face as if it wishes to become another expression entirely.

“Valjean,” he says with a great exhale of breath. “You do not— You are—" He stops himself and stares at Valjean for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “If you wish it,” he says at last, quiet and resigned.

He turns before Valjean can decipher the look on his face, drawing Valjean’s curtains with quick motions. The room turns darker, light spilling out from behind the curtains giving everything a softer look. Even Javert’s scowl does not look as harsh as he stalks back to Valjean’s bedside.

“Will that satisfy you?” he asks in a growl.

“Will you take off your hat and coat?” Valjean asks instead.

Javert grumbles but removes his hat swiftly and places it on Valjean’s desk, centering it by habit with precise fingers. Then his coat comes off and is nearly thrown onto the back of the chair.

“Are you satisfied now?” he snaps.

“Come closer?”

Again, Javert obeys. His face is set in a snarl, but Valjean is not afraid. He does not think he could ever be afraid of Javert now that they have known each other.

“May I have your hand?” Valjean requests.

Javert offers his hand stiffly, his jaw tense and aiming something that is not quite a glare in Valjean’s direction.

With far more care than necessary, Valjean removes his glove and lays it carefully on his lap. Then he takes Javert’s hand in his own once again and brings it to his lips.

“Now I am satisfied,” he says, looking up at Javert, then presses his lips to Javert’s knuckles.

Again, Javert’s hand clenches in his own.

“You cannot be satisfied with me,” Javert says, his grip tightening until it is nearly painful.

“You have satisfied me a great many times,” Valjean answers with a smile hidden behind Javert’s hand.

Javert jerks his hand from Valjean’s hold and snatches his glove from off the blankets. “That is not what I was referring to,” he says. “I am speaking of—" he gestures between them, “—of this! You say what we do together is sin? This is more damning than anything we have done!”

Valjean does not attempt to recapture Javert’s hand, instead drawing both his own close to himself. “I have often asked God if what we do is sin,” he says, watching his fingers pick stray threads from the blankets. “More often, I have asked Him if what I feel for you is sin as well.”

“Valjean—" Javert starts.

“I have thought on this for a long time,” Valjean continues. Javert will hear him, no matter if he does not want to. “I denied it to myself, assuming that such affection for you would damn the both of us. We are two men, and I am human while you have never been.”

“Valjean, you do not—" Javert tries again.

“Montparnasse granted me a moment to pray before- before he—” Valjean clenches his hands in the blankets, shutting his eyes against the memories of the attack that have surfaced in his mind. “Well,” he says, voice shaking. “He allowed me a moment. In it, I prayed for happiness for you and Cosette, a swift and painless end for myself, and then I asked God to forgive me for my affections towards you. I did not expect to live to see you again.”

Javert is no longer scowling, his frown smoothed to a flat line and his expression more conflicted than Valjean has ever seen it. He looks as if he wants for Valjean to continue and at the same time angry at himself for wishing so.

“I woke, and you were here at my bedside,” Valjean continues. “And so I can no longer believe that it is sin, for He answered my prayers and sent you as my savior.” He wets his lips, determinedly staring down at his hands. “Love can never be sin if it is given freely,” he finishes quietly.

Javert says nothing, his body as still as a dead thing. Even his breath seems to stop.

“You,” Javert begins after several long moments, his voice rough as if from disuse. He clears his throat. “You cannot be so foolish as too—"

He stops, his posture suddenly at attention. He turns towards the door.

“We will finish this conversation later when you are recovered enough to think about what you are saying,” Javert says abruptly. “Cosette and the boy have arrived.”

“What?” Valjean asks, feeling what little blood he has left draining from his face. “No, no; she cannot be here!”

“I sent word to her, as I thought she would speak sense into you,” Javert snaps at him, voice returning to its normal commanding tone. “You claim that love is not a sin, yet you push your daughter away when you clearly love her dearly. Why would you not want her at your side when you are ill?”

“She is married,” Valjean says, “and I risk her happiness. If I am found out—"

“You will not be found out!” Javert snarls, hands in tight fists at his side. “I will not allow it!”

“I appreciate your efforts, but you cannot be everywhere,” Valjean says. “There is still a chance someone will recognize me eventually.”

Javert glares at him, as if he wishes to continue, then turns sharply to glower at the fireplace. “There is a more immediate problem. There is no route in which I may escape, as Cosette will be here momentarily. It has been too long since I have fed and she will no doubt recognize what I am immediately, if her husband does not reveal me first.”

Valjean looks over Javert, noting his ashen skin and red-tinted eyes, and knows him to be correct.

“I will explain,” Valjean reassures him, having no idea how he is to explain Javert’s presence when he is bound to bed and drained of blood. “I will not allow you to be—"

“Papa!” Cosette exclaims, bursting through the door without so much as a courtesy knock.

Javert freezes at Valjean’s side while Valjean attempts to smile at her. He does not believe he is successful.

“Cosette,” he says, and even to his own ears it sounds forced.

“Are you alright? Did the doctor see to you? Do you need anything?” she says in a rush, flying to his side.

Javert carefully sidesteps her and appears to attempt to blend into the shadows of the wall.

“I am fine,” Valjean assures her. “The doctor said I only need rest. A week at the most.”

“Two,” Javert corrects, as if automatically. “You will have two weeks of rest until I see you up and about again.”

Cosette turns to him at the same moment Marius enters.

“I do not believe we have met, Monsieur,” Cosette says.

Javert tenses, but answers stiffly, “I am Inspector—"

“Javert!” Marius exclaims. He grabs Cosette by the arm and pulls her backwards. “Cosette, he is a—"

He falls silent quite suddenly and stands unmoving. Paralyzed, undoubtedly.

“Javert,” Valjean chides gently, hand moving to rest on Javert’s arm on its own accord. “Must you?”

“He was about to alert the entire house, if not the street,” Javert growls. His eyes shine undoubtedly red and he does not break eye contact with Marius. “You said you were going to explain, so explain quickly. I am uncertain how long I can hold him.”

“Papa?” Cosette asks nervously.

“Cosette, may I introduce my,” he hesitates over the word, which does not nearly encapsulate what he and Javert share, “my friend Inspector Javert?”

She does not look quite convinced, clearly recognizing Javert for what he is. Her eyes dart to Valjean’s bandaged neck. “Is he the one who—”

“No, never!” Valjean assures her quickly. “Javert may be... inhuman, but he would never kill anyone in that way. I have known his true nature for many months, and he has never once allowed his curse to overcome him.”

“He is a vampire!” Marius suddenly says, breaking from Javert’s hold.

“Blast,” Javert mutters. “I am too weak to hypnotize him properly.”

“Thank you for giving me that moment,” Valjean says to him. “Still, you should apologize for being so rude.”

Javert eyes Marius critically, clearly finding him lacking. Marius edges away from him as if afraid Javert will attack him at any moment despite Valjean’s testimony.

“I thought you killed him, Monsieur!” Marius says.

“Obviously, he did not,” Javert says flatly, crossing his arms and finally pulling himself out of Valjean’s reach. “I demanded that he put an end to my cursed life, but he refused. Several times.”

“I could not kill you when I knew you would never harm an innocent,” Valjean says.

“You did not know that,” Javert argues. “I was unnecessarily cruel to you for several decades. You had every reason to kill me.”

They have had this conversation several times, and neither of them have budged on their stance.

“I cannot regret saving a life,” Valjean says simply.

“If you were not the one to attack Papa, then who did?” Cosette asks, wary confusion on her face.

“Another vampire named Montparnasse,” Javert reports.

“Inspector Javert is not a danger,” Valjean attempts to assure her. “He’s the one who saved me. Javert has extraordinary self-control and I have never felt threatened in his presence since I learned he was not human.”

“There was that first time,” Javert mutters. “And in the alley.”

“But not since,” Valjean is quick to point out.

Cosette looks more assured, but Marius does not, and he takes yet another step backwards, still gripping firmly to Cosette’s arm.

Javert grumbles and turns back to Cosette. “Montparnasse is not known for leaving his victims alive, nor for being gentle. It was pure chance that I managed to save Valjean from being yet another of Montparnasse’s murders.”

“He did not pass on the curse to you?” Cosette asks, slipping from Marius’s hold to once again stand at Valjean’s bedside.

“No,” Javert answers for him. “Montparnasse is not known for spreading his vampirism. Vampires are not like werewolves; it requires more than a bite to infect another. Valjean did not ingest Montparnasse’s blood or he would be healed by now and cursed as I am. I would know either way. He is thankfully still human.”

“I will be fine, Cosette,” Valjean assures her, patting her hand. “Inspector Javert has taken good care of me.”

“He calls you Valjean,” she says. “Why?”

Valjean freezes. “Ah.”

“Damn,” Javert curses, scowling at himself. “Forgive me, Valjean. You know I cannot think rationally when I have not fed for this long.”

“You are forgiven,” Valjean tells him. “I have already told Marius of my history and my true name.”

“Indeed, he did, Inspector!” Marius says. “If you are still acting as a man of the law, you should arrest this man!”

“He is my father!” Cosette exclaims. “How can you say such a thing!”

Javert scowls at Valjean. “I presume you told him only of your faults and nothing of your virtues? What must I do to make you realize you are more than an ex-convict?”

Cosette gasps and Valjean flinches.

“But Javert—" he tries.

Javert pays him no mind and turns to Cosette. “He believes he is no longer of use to you now that you are married. And you,” he turns on Marius with a fierce scowl, looming over him like an archangel ready to smite the unjust. “This man carried you through the sewers to save your life from certain death the night of the rebellion, and this is how you thank him? If not for the fact I could hear your heartbeat, I would have assumed you dead that night. If I am to arrest anyone, it should be you for aiding the revolutionaries at the barricade!”

“Javert—” Valjean attempts.

“Papa, I do not understand!” Cosette says over him. “I know you have kept secrets from me, and I have allowed that, but what is this Inspector Javert speaks of? How is it that he knows so much about you and I so little?”

Javert huffs, his arms once again crossed over his chest. “I have known Valjean for longer than you have been alive, Mademoiselle. I was unforgivably cruel to him, yet he has forgiven me and we have become,” he, too, pauses on the word, “friends, shall we say, in recent months. As I do not trust him to tell his story fairly, I will attempt to explain his history.”

“Javert—" Valjean argues.

“I will set the record straight,” Javert tells him stubbornly. “I will not allow these ridiculous lies to exist any longer.

Valjean does not protest again, knowing Javert will speak over him anyway if he did. It would be a waste of energy, and he is already tired from arguing with Javert and explaining himself to Cosette. He closes his eyes, just for a moment while Javert begins, and finds himself quickly asleep to the sound of Javert’s familiar rough voice.

It only feels like a minute until a hushed argument rouses him again.

“—not wake him,” comes Javert’s growl.

“I only wish to check his wound.” Cosette says next. “I have become very apt at changing bandages. What damage there is will not phase me.”

“He will insist upon speaking to you,” Javert argues. “He needs rest.”

“I am awake,” Valjean says, words slurred by sleep. He rubs at his face with a hand, forcing himself to wakefulness. “I am not so fragile as you believe, Javert.”

“You are human,” Javert states, as if that justifies how stubbornly and unnecessarily protective he is being.

Valjean does not know when Javert’s hand migrated to rest on his arm, fingers once more wrapping around his wrist lightly to feel his pulse. It was probably when he had been resting. That does not explain why he has not moved himself now that Valjean is awake.

“Inspector Javert has told us everything,” Cosette says. “I did not guess you had been through such hardships! I forgive you for your secrets, I can only wish you had told me so you did not have to carry that burden alone. Inspector Javert says you planned to distance yourself from me; is that why you have not come to visit?”

“Cosette, I am only a danger to you,” Valjean says. “If I am found out—"

“I tell you I will not allow it!” Javert snaps, his grip on Valjean’s arm tightening briefly. “You will be protected for as long as I am living, and we both know I will easily outlive you. You will have the peace you deserve.”

For the first time, he does not mention suicide or his own death when speaking of the future. Valjean looks up, staring at him in a pleased sort of surprise, and Javert quickly looks away and allows his bangs to fall over his eyes.

“You must forgive me as well, Monsieur!” Marius pleads, going so far as to kneel at his bedside. “I took you at your word and did not think that there may be more than you said!”

Javert steps away to allow him space, his hand leaving Valjean’s skin feeling odd and empty without his touch.

“You are forgiven,” Valjean tells Marius easily. “However, you should not think so highly of me. I am still a thief—"

“You are a fool,” Javert cuts him off. “A fool, an annoyance, and a constant distraction. You will have your daughter and you will be happy. I will see to it.”

It sounds like a vow, striking Valjean like a bolt of lightning with the truth of it. He desires to take Javert’s hand, to kiss him and pledge his own vow, but they are not alone and Valjean does not dare reach for him with an audience present. Once, Javert had asked what would make him happy; now he is forcing it to manifest.

“Yes,” Cosette agrees, drawing his attention away from Javert. “I have had much practice with changing bandages when Marius was recovering. Allow me to check yours.”

“If you must,” Valjean says, giving into her stubbornness.

The doctor has not yet come again to change them himself and the bandages pull at his healing wound painfully even with Cosette’s careful hands at his neck. Marius pales when the bandage is finally removed so Valjean can only assume it looks as terrible as it feels. The familiar feeling of fresh blood soaking his neck is not unexpected.

Javert tenses, suddenly focused on the blood seeping from Valjean’s wound. His eyes flash red and Valjean has no doubt his fangs are extending behind his closed lips. For a moment, Valjean is afraid Javert is losing the battle against his instincts, then Javert turns himself sharply away.

“I must leave,” he says abruptly. “It was difficult enough to begin with, but now I risk losing myself.”

“I understand,” Valjean says. “Go.”

Javert collects his coat and hat, careful control in every motion. “I will return when I am able, tomorrow at the latest,” he says. Then he leaves, the door closing behind him and leaving Valjean to stare after him.

Valjean can only hope he means he will return after he has fed, although he does not know where Javert will find someone to his standards on such short notice. He should not starve himself for Valjean’s sake.

“It is the blood,” Valjean attempts to explain to a confused-looking Marius. “He has postponed, ah, feeding himself in favor of caring for me.”

Marius does not look assured.

“However did you become friends with him?” Cosette asks, still focused on checking Valjean’s wound. “He neglected to mention how it is you became so familiar with each other after being adversaries for years.”

So Javert did not mention the bridge or their agreement. Valjean will not betray Javert’s confidence and speak of the bridge, but he cannot possibly speak of what their agreement has led to.

“Javert and I, ah,” Valjean stumbles. “The night after the rebellion, we came to a, well, a sort of understanding.”

Which is certainly one way of putting it. It is not exactly a lie as long as exactly what kind of understanding that has since developed goes unsaid.

“I knew that Javert would never harm someone to the point of incapacitation,” he continues carefully. “He has always been strict with others about the law and even stricter with himself in all things. I trusted him then, adversaries as we were, and I trust him now.”

“And you have been visiting him since then?” Cosette asks. She frowns at the bandage around his neck, but carefully places it back. No doubt she will be replacing it if given suitable supplies.

“I have, yes,” Valjean says, once again staring down at his hands on the blanket. “I have been visiting him regularly. Javert found himself in need of, ah, a suitable donor, if you will—”

“Papa!” Cosette exclaims.

“He did not need me often, nor take enough to make a difference in my health,” Valjean assures her quickly. “I was going to meet him when Montparnasse found me first. When I did not arrive, Javert left our meeting place and happened to come across me. Without his intervention, I would certainly be dead.”

“Is that not dangerous, Monsieur?” Marius asks from the other side of the room. His face is still pale, and he seems to be looking past Valjean’s shoulder rather than catch sight of the wound on Valjean’s neck again. “He is still a vampire!”

“I trust him with my life,” Valjean states firmly. “Javert has an iron hold on his other instincts and I have only seen him lose control once, after an extreme circumstance. He has no coven and has been alone for most or all his long life with no one to confide in, be it human or supernatural being. He is still a man, no matter what curse he carries.”

Neither Cosette nor Marius seem content with that, giving each other a hesitant look of doubt.

“I am tired,” Valjean says before they can argue further. He does not wish to argue with Cosette, especially not about Javert. Both of them are dear to him, now to the point where he cannot choose one or the other without a great deal of loss. Perhaps, after he is rested, Cosette will have a more open mind about his friendship with Javert.

“Of course, Papa,” Cosette says, laying a hand to his shoulder. “I will stay until the doctor visits again.”

She rises, then turns to the curtains as if to open them again.

“Leave them closed,” Valjean requests.

“Why?” Cosette asks. “The sunlight will do you good.”

Valjean cannot help how his eyes slide away from hers. Guilt, for wishing Javert a swift return, for hiding his affection, for worrying so needlessly about him. Javert’s absence already feels like a great loss in his soul and not even a half-hour has passed since his departure.

“Javert may return while it is still daylight,” he explains. He hopes Javert will return soon, if only to show Cosette he is not a danger. “Sunlight pains him.”

“I see,” she says, a frown crossing her face. She leaves the curtains alone. However she may feel about Javert returning so soon, at least she still trusts her Papa.

“Thank you for your forgiveness,” he says quietly. “I never once expected you to forgive the secrets I have kept from you.”

“How can I not forgive you, Papa!” she says, returning to his side once more. “You have been the best father I could have wished for. You are not who you have been, something the Inspector told us you refuse to believe when it comes from him.”

“Javert and I disagree on a number of things.” Valjean cannot help the little smile forming on his face when speaking of Javert. A moment later, he attends to hide a yawn behind the sleeve of his nightshirt.

Cosette pats his knee. “We should leave you to your rest. I will be here when you wake, and I will see that you eat well so you may recover quickly!”

Marius mumbles an awkward goodbye, having lingered by the doorway while Valjean was absorbed in Cosette’s presence, and then the both are out the door again. Valjean closes his eyes and falls into unconsciousness soon after.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the prewritten chapters and it's uh Highly unlikely that I'll get ch9 written and ready by next week. This should end about at about 9 or 10 chapters, we'll see. The end is near! I just gotta......write it.......

The next time he awakens, it is to his landlady holding a new bowl of broth and the doctor. The doctor changes his bandages and inspects the wound, then instructs him to eat plenty of broth and to not exert himself. Valjean agrees to it all, and he is especially cheered by the news he should be going about his day as normal in a week or so if everything goes well. There is still a chance Javert will refuse to see him out of bed until there is not a mark of the attack left on his person, but even that is preferable to two weeks of bedrest.

“You said your daughter has experience with dressing wounds?” the doctor asks as he packs his things away.

“That is correct,” Valjean answers.

“If that is so, then I see no need to return here.” The doctor clips his bag closed. “You only need rest and for someone to see to your neck and your arm once a day or so. Do not push yourself and stand before you are ready, otherwise I may be called back again for a more serious injury if you fall.”

Javert will be pleased by that, if only because he will see Valjean’s injuries healed far faster than the doctor can. Valjean thanks the doctor as he leaves, finding himself somewhat disappointed that only Cosette and Marius are lingering outside his door. It is nearly absurd to worry about Javert when he has been taking care of himself for so many lonely years, but Valjean cannot help himself from fretting needlessly. It is only just sunset, after all.

“Why the Inspector?” Cosette asks him long after the doctor has left. Marius is distracting himself elsewhere, leaving Cosette alone at Valjean’s bedside.

“Why?” Valjean repeats in confusion,

“You have had plenty of opportunities to make friends, Papa,” Cosette says as if it is obvious. “Why him?”

Valjean thinks for a moment, rolling the possible answers he could give her in his mind before deciding on one.

“He is different,” Valjean says. “He is unlike any man I have ever known and no vampire I have ever heard of, yet we have similarities. We have both pretended to be things we are not, and both have had secrets to hide. He knows me, he has seen me at my worst, and after everything he still insists that I am a good man.”

Cosette hums and does not say anything more. Valjean basks in her company, all too aware his time with her is limited even though he has been assured by both Cosette and Marius that he will see her regularly. She is no longer his to keep, but he will still have this.

“He has not harmed you?” Cosette asks many minutes later.

It takes a moment before Valjean remembers what they were speaking about. “Javert? No more than necessary,” he answers.

If desiring, asking for, and enjoying the pain Javert inflicts on him is deemed ‘necessary’. There are still things he can never discuss with his daughter.

“I have always given myself to him willingly,” Valjean continues. “He is always careful about my health.”

The door opens without so much as a knock and Javert enters, his usual scowl fixed on his face.

“As I should,” Javert says. “You are far too reckless for your own good.”

Valjean finds himself smiling before he can even think to suppress himself. “Javert! You look much better.”

Indeed, Valjean does not think he has ever seen Javert’s face look so full of life. There is pink in his cheeks and a lack of dark circles under his eyes. Even the lines on his face do not look as harsh as usual. Javert may never be considered handsome, but he is far closer to it now than Valjean has ever seen him.

“I wished to be back sooner, but one of my officers saw me in the street and did not seem to understand that I am off duty.” Javert’s scowl deepens. “At least he did not immediately assume I was a patron of the... establishment he saw me exiting.”

“Establishment?” Valjean asks.

Javert glances at Cosette, then back at Valjean. “It is not something I wish to discuss in current company.”

Valjean is now desperately curious to hear where Javert possibly found a source, or even two by how healthy he looks, in such a short amount of time. Javert flicks his eyes to Cosette again pointedly, so Valjean does not ask again.

“You told me yourself you have never taken time off work,” Valjean says instead. “Even I would assume you to be working if I saw you in the street.”

“I do not work every hour of every day,” Javert grumbles.

“Some days, it seemed so.” Valjean smiles at him, even as Javert rolls his eyes.

“What did the doctor say?” Javert asks.

“He will not be returning and said I only need rest, a week or so and not the two you insisted upon, and for someone to change my bandages, to which Cosette volunteered.”

“I can do that,” Javert insists. “I could not live so long without learning something as simple as caring for wounds.”

“Like how you know how to dance?” Valjean cannot help but ask.

Javert glowers at him and opens his mouth to no doubt lecture him on why that was different, but Cosette speaks first.

“Were you my father’s mysterious practice dance partner?” she asks.

“You were never to tell her that,” Javert growls.

“Ah,” Valjean says, looking down in embarrassment. “Forgive me for forgetting myself.”

“Papa is wonderful at the waltz,” Cosette continues. “I must thank you for teaching him better than I could.”

“I would not call him that, Mademoiselle,” Javert says, frown still fixed on his face. “At least, not in relation to dancing.”

Valjean’s heart forgets to beat for a moment, instantly drawing a concerned look from Javert.

“You should not have to do everything, Inspector,” Cosette says. “I am happy to play nurse at Papa’s bedside.”

Javert frowns. “I am well used to—"

Valjean reaches out to touch Javert’s arm briefly before he can start another argument. As predicted, Javert stops speaking immediately to look at him in concern.

“I will be fine in Cosette’s hands,” Valjean tells him.

Javert glances at Cosette in consideration, then appears to give in. “Allow me to see to your arm tonight.”

“The doctor has already seen to it,” Cosette says.

“I will see to it better,” Javert insists. “There is no reason you should not allow me to—"

“Ah, Cosette?” Valjean interrupts quickly. “Javert will see to me tonight, as I believe we have an unfinished conversation?”

Javert frowns at him, color tinging his cheeks most unusually, and crosses his arms. “You cannot possibly still be insisting on such senseless ideas.”

Valjean can only smile at him. “I have told you on more than one occasion that I lack sense.”

Cosette looks between them, amusement on her face. “If you say, Papa. It is late and you should be resting.”

“I will make certain he rests,” Javert says with a firm look to Valjean.

“I believe he is more inclined to obey you than I, Inspector,” Cosette says. “Goodnight, Papa, Inspector.”

She leans down to kiss his cheek briefly, the move quite unexpected and momentarily stealing Valjean’s thoughts away. It is only when she is very nearly out the door that Valjean remembers to wish her a belated good night as well.

“Are you always surprised when you are shown affection?” Javert asks in a tone of mock irritation when the door is shut once more.

“I did not expect her to still call me Papa,” Valjean answers in a daze. His fingers trace where her lips graced his cheek. “I was so certain she would wash her hands of me.”

“That is because you are a fool,” Javert says flatly. “I do not claim to know her but Cosette is your daughter, regardless of any shared blood between you. You have spoken of her enough that even I can see what affection you have for each other.”

“I have been selfish,” Valjean continues. “I do not deserve her, nor do I deserve you.”

“Have I not made myself clear?” Javert snaps. “You will have your happiness!” Javert glances at the wall shared between Valjean’s room and Cosette’s, then continues in a lower volume. “I am the one who is underserving of you, Valjean. It is I who has been selfish, I who have claimed you for my own purposes.”

“I have never once thought of denying you,” Valjean says.

Javert only sneers, but as with so many of his crueler expressions, it is aimed at himself. “Perhaps not, but there is no reason why I continued to call on you long after I found myself a suitable source. Did you not think it strange how quickly I returned?”

“Of course I noticed,” Valjean answers. “I do not think I have ever seen you looking so well.”

“It was months ago when I hit upon a solution,” Javert continues. “It was so obvious I do not know why I did not think of it before. There are places in Paris, a great many of them, where depraved and occasionally cruel men gather to seek cheap women and terrible pleasures. Men who drink to excess and abuse those that depend on them and gladly retell tales of criminal nature when inquired.”

Javert can only be speaking of brothels. Valjean stills his tongue, which immediately wants to argue in favor of the beaten and broken women who can see no other means of employment. Those like Fantine, whom he has never forgotten. However, Javert is not looking at him and would only snap at him if interrupted.

“Today I traveled there and I found two men who were comparing ways of...” Javert pauses in his speech, then shakes his head with a look of disgust on his face. “They were not men whose desires ran in innocent or harmless ways. I took from both, destroying their memories of the event and sending them to forced sleep afterward. Both, because I desired your safety and I cannot quite trust myself around you when you have open wounds. Even then I did not want simply blood. I could taste their fear; my tongue is still bitter from it. No, I wanted to taste you and your desire. I could not understand why others of my kind seem fixated on seducing those they hunt, but now I know how different the taste is between one who is willing and one who is not.”

Javert removes his hat and runs a hand through his bangs. His face is still set in a self-deprecating scowl, lips nearly curling so far back as to reveal his pointed canines. Valjean notes that he does not precisely look younger from intaking more blood than usual, only that he looks healthier. He did not realize how haggard Javert’s drawn expression looks until faced with the sight of a Javert with enough color in his cheeks to flush in sheer frustration.

“You should be upset with me for not revealing to you my discovery,” Javert continues, “yet I know you to anticipate our arranged meetings and even ask me to do you harm. I have a marked preference for you when I should not be able to feel such things at all. When you suggested this, I did not expect our arrangement to lead me to, to this! I did not expect that we would- that you—" He ends his sentence with an annoyed growl of frustration and pulls so hard at his hair Valjean is afraid he will harm himself.

“I could never have predicted this,” Valjean says in quiet agreement. “Never would I have anticipated that I would grow attached to you and care for you as I do.”

“You are saying those foolish things again,” Javert growls.

“They are true,” Valjean says simply. “Why should I not say them?”

“Because you cannot possibly—" Javert cuts himself off with a snap of teeth, clearly making a physical effort to keep his voice lowered. He paces at Valjean’s bedside, arms making sharp gestures in the air. “You cannot possibly hold affection for me! Do you forget what I am, Valjean? My very nature is cursed!”

“God has forgiven us,” Valjean says.

“Did you learn nothing from Montparnasse?” Javert hisses. “I could kill you in an instant. I could render you helpless with a thought. I could do anything I wished with you, and you still believe that—"

“You are not like Montparnasse,” Valjean insists. “You are a good man, Javert. I trust you.”

Javert ceases moving at his declaration, instead standing to stare at him with dark eyes and an expressionless face. It is unnatural for a living being to be so still without being a statue. He reminds Valjean of the gargoyles residing around Notre Dame, the ones who turn to stone at the touch of sunlight and are renowned for their ugliness. Javert is just as still and unblinking as one of those creatures in the day, his features sharp and ugly even to Valjean’s forgiving eyes.

“You are a fool,” Javert says at last. The words are forced from his throat, as if the familiar phrase did not wish to leave Javert’s tongue.

“So you have said,” Valjean says, smiling at him with a fondness he could not hope to disguise if he wished to. Such insults should not bring him delight and joy.

Javert does not smile, but Valjean does not expect him to. Instead, he looks away, face reddening, and his mouth pulls downward in annoyance at his tongue’s betrayal. Like this, his teeth hidden and cheeks flushed, Valjean can almost imagine him human.

“You infuriate me,” Javert mutters, but even that sounds nearly affectionate to Valjean’s ears. He sits himself on the edge of Valjean’s bed, absently smoothing the blankets and flicking off broken threads. “Let me see to your arm before I convince myself to do something foolish.”

“I would not mind it if you did something foolish,” Valjean says even as he obediently holds his right arm out for Javert’s inspection.

Javert holds his eyes for a moment, long enough for a flash of heat to spark in his gaze, before turning to Valjean’s arm.

“You know very well I cannot do such things when we can be overheard,” Javert says, unwinding the bandage on Valjean’s arm with surprising carefulness. “You are too ill for such activities and I prefer it when you do not muffle yourself.”

“I was not thinking of that!” Valjean objects, even as he can admit to himself he would have a hard time denying him if Cosette were not staying in the next room over.

Javert hums, clearly unconvinced. The corner of his lip twitches upward, betraying him.

Bandage removed, Valjean can understand why Javert was so furious with him after he first saw the self-inflicted wound. The length of it has turned an angry red and is sensitive to the touch. Javert passes a careful finger over the length of it.

“I could have prevented this,” Javert says quietly. “I do not know how well I can heal you now that the wound is old. You would not be confined to bed had I been informed.”

“So you have said,” Valjean replies just as quietly.

“You should never—" Javert clenches his jaw, his hold on Valjean’s wrist tightening briefly. “Valjean, I never want to see wounds such as this on you again. I know I am being hypocritical when you go so far as to ask me to—"

“It was not the same,” Valjean hurries to tell him. “I thought it may be the same, that I may be able to bear it easily as I do when you drink from my wrists, but it was very different. It will not happen again, Javert.”

“See that it does not,” Javert says, then he brings Valjean’s arm to his lips.

Valjean had expected him to simply pass his tongue over the wound as he has done in the past, but Javert does not immediately set himself to the task. Instead, he presses his lips in what can only be a kiss to the beginning of the cut and lingers there for several seconds. It is not gentle or soft, more of a reassurance to himself that Valjean still lives than anything, but it has Valjean’s breath catching in his chest. Only after satisfying himself with that does he begin to work, his tongue careful but still causing Valjean to wince when he is too rough. Javert will press his lips to Valjean’s skin again briefly as if in apology when that happens, then resume once more. It is over quickly even with Javert’s lingering kisses. Javert releases him reluctantly and draws back, but Valjean is not so ready for him to be finished yet.

“May I ask you something foolish?” Valjean asks softly, catching Javert’s hands before he can completely pull away.

“If you must.”

“Will you kiss me?”

There is only a slight hesitation before Javert is leaning over him to capture his lips with clumsy eagerness. It is not wild as it has been before, nor is it careful or hesitant. They are not quite coordinated, but neither of them care about coordination when it is a clear admittance of desires born from affection and not of lust. Valjean smooths his calloused fingers across Javert’s cheek and through his thick whiskers. Javert mirrors the action on Valjean’s own face, tracing the creases of age with a careful touch.

It is the first time they have kissed without guilt and Valjean easily finds himself smiling.

“You are thinking something ridiculous,” Javert murmurs against his lips. His elbow rests on the bed by Valjean’s head, denting the mattress and nearly laying himself over Valjean’s chest.

“I am thinking that I would prefer you to stay, if such things were acceptable,” Valjean replies. He catches a lock of Javert’s hair between his fingers as if he could somehow keep him here with that alone.

“You would not mind keeping my snuffbox under your pillow, if such things were acceptable?” Javert asks. His hand leaves Valjean’s face and travels to his chest and, had Valjean been in better health, he would respond far more enthusiastically to such a possessive touch. As it is, his eyes flutter shut and he hums contentedly.

“I would not mind a great many things,” Valjean answers with his eyes still closed. He remembers Javert’s odd grave dirt-filled snuffbox and how he cannot sleep without it among the many other requirements Javert must follow to simply live.

“You tempt me,” Javert mutters, dragging his hand down Valjean’s chest and smoothing his nightshirt like he cannot quite help himself from touching. His hand is only just cooler than Valjean’s body rather than there being a marked difference in their temperatures as there usually is. Valjean cannot help but think that he prefers Javert’s usual cool hands.

“I would not mind if you called me Jean,” Valjean continues in a sleepy murmur.

“You are ridiculous,” Javert mutters, rising to stand at his bedside once more. “Sleep. I will be here when you wake.”

Valjean tries to thank him, but before he can say the words, he is asleep once more.

.

The next day, after breakfast, Cosette and Marius are convinced to leave on a walk while Javert sees to Valjean’s wounds. His arm had healed noticeably since the day before, but not as quickly as Javert would have liked if the scowl on his face is any indication. He passes his tongue over it once more despite Valjean’s weak arguments that it is fine to let it heal on its own. Then, Javert looks at Valjean’s neck.

He has brought Valjean into a sitting position so he may have easier access to the wound. The bandage pulls at his skin painfully despite the care Javert is using. Once it is removed Javert is very still, staring at it with an unreadable expression.

“What is it?” Valjean asks.

“I should have killed Montparnasse where he stood,” Javert says with barely concealed rage.

“You said yourself that he was much stronger than you,” Valjean attempts to console him. “It would have been suicide.”

“If we had met the week before, if only just to speak, then my scent would linger on you,” Javert continues in a growl. “He would have known that you are _mine.”_

Valjean cannot repress the shiver that travels through his body at Javert’s declaration.

“Montparnasse would have respected my claim on you, regardless of if he recognized my scent or not,” Javert explains, oblivious to Valjean’s reaction. “It is not unusual for a vampire to stake a claim on a specific human they take a liking to, perhaps several at once. I had thought that in doing so I could offer you protection.”

“He asked if I were familiar with vampires,” Valjean says. “I said I was. He did not seem to think that overly unusual and I do not believe he would have cared about who I belong to.”

Javert scowls, eyes narrowed and looking hatefully at the wall as if Montparnasse was in the room with them.

Valjean wets his lips. “Is- is that right?”

Javert’s eyes flick to his, the red in them unmistakable even as Javert is clearly not in need of substance. “Pardon?”

“That, ah...” Valjean hesitates, a slight heat rising in his cheeks, “that I belong to you? That I am yours?”

The red in Javert’s eyes fades to his normal dark brown in a moment, his hateful expression turned to anxiety.

“Forgive me,” Javert says quickly. “I have no right to refer to you as—" His eyes drop to his lap. “Forgive me, Valjean.”

Valjean swallows, the wound on his neck protesting.

“I would like to be yours,” Valjean says, so quiet he doubts Javert would have heard him if he were human.

Javert snaps his head up. “You would?”

Valjean allows himself to smile softly at him, the way he has wanted to for months. “I am more than happy to be called yours, Javert. You have captured me quite effectively these last months, although certainly not in the way I had expected for all those years.”

Javert does not snort in that amused way of his like Valjean expected him to, but instead only stares with inhuman stillness. He says nothing.

Valjean looks down at his lap after several moments, quite embarrassed. The moment of unabashed confidence has abruptly ended and now all Valjean can think is that perhaps he is asking too much, that he was maybe too hasty in revealing the depths of his devotion.

“I— Forgive me, Javert,” Valjean says hurriedly. “I am not telling you how attached I have become to you these past months because I am demanding you care for me in the same manner. I only thought— I was certain I was going to die that night. I thought I was going to leave you and you would never know how much I need you. You have lived so much of your long life in hate and I cannot bear to let you continue thinking those things about yourself without knowing how much I- I—”

The word catches in his throat, feeling as heavy as a brick and twice as large. He glances to Javert’s face for a brief moment, just long enough to note that not a muscle has moved, before looking away again.

“I love you,” Valjean finishes at last nearly in a whisper, the volume pushed out from the word by the weight of the meaning behind it. He shifts awkwardly, hands wringing the blankets at his lap. “These last few months have been a whirlwind with the rebellion and you not arresting me like you should have and the wedding and all the other little things, but I quickly came to treasure the hours we shared when I could come to know you like I never could before and Javert, you must be made aware of just how much—“

Javert’s hand comes to rest on Valjean’s restless ones, startling him out of his ramblings even though the movement was slow and human-like. Still, he says nothing.

“Oh,” Valjean says softly, the anxiety in his chest turning into a little ball cringing in on itself. “Forgive me. I did not- It was not my intention to—"

“Valjean,” Javert says, his voice calm and even and giving nothing away. “I am thinking.”

“Oh,” Valjean says again, just as hopeless.

It occurs to him that he has seen Javert do this before, on several occasions but most memorably in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Valjean had entered the station-house upon a many-months old invitation when he simply could not reasonably give a reason to put off the visit any longer and learned of Fantine’s arrest. Valjean had ordered Fantine free and Javert had frozen still for several minutes. Of course, he had been furious when he had returned to himself on that occasion. Valjean tries to remind himself that Montreuil-sur-Mer was long ago, but his heart still thumps quick with anxiety in his chest.

“Let me see to this first,” Javert says, passing his thumb just under the wound on Valjean’s neck.

Valjean tilts his head obligingly even as he wishes he could still look at Javert to read his face.

“This will probably hurt,” Javert mutters, his mouth just under Valjean’s ear.

“I trust you,” Valjean tells him.

Javert hesitates a moment, as if he were about to respond. He says nothing and leans close to press his tongue to the edge of the wound. It stings in a way entirely unlike the pain Javert usually inflicts on him and Valjean finds himself flinching.

“Apologies,” Javert says. “Do you want me to—”

“Keep going,” Valjean interrupts before Javert can say something stupid. “I would rather that you heal me then have you blame yourself later.”

“Foolish…” Javert mutters quietly. Valjean expects he was not intended to hear. “Stay still,” Javert says in a clearer voice.

Valjean has no doubts that the wound on his neck will take much longer to heal than Javert’s usual marks, but maybe now he can prove to Javert that there are helpful aspects to his nature, that he is not the monster he thinks he is. Why else would vampires be able to heal? Javert is clearly unversed in complex hypnotism like those Montparnasse attempted, but certainly there are positive aspects to that as well. Perhaps, if Javert forces him into sleep, then he can sleep without nightmares.

“Finished,” Javert says some time later. He has not pulled away entirely, still close enough that Valjean cannot focus his eyes on him properly. Javert’s eyes are the color of old blood, the hint of red only apparent if one is looking for it. The circles under his eyes are faded, his normally ashen complexion brighter. It is very strange, but not unwelcome.

“How?” Javert asks.

Valjean blinks. “Pardon?”

Javert turns his eyes away, his brows drawn low in confusion. “How can you possibly l— feel _that_ for me?”

“Is it really so hard to believe?”

Javert barks a single harsh laugh. “Valjean— I am quite literally a monster. I survive by preying on humans. You should know this better than anyone! You are my prey! The fact that you continue to let me live unreported is a blessing I do not deserve, but for you to—!” His hand tightens on Valjean’s wrist and he looks away with a disgusted scowl. “How you can ever bear my presence is a mystery to me.”

“Javert,” Valjean finds himself saying, taking his hand in his own. It is odd to feel warmth from Javert’s skin. “You are so much more than your vampirism. I have known monsters and you are certainly not one of them.”

“Valjean—"

“Listen to me,” Valjean says, holding tight to Javert’s hand. “I do not remember Toulon well, but I remember one guard in particular who was especially cruel— and no, it was not you. He miscounted lashes with a smile on his face, looked the other way while convicts abused those who were weaker, always took the slightest infraction as an excuse to enact the harshest punishment.”

“I remember,” Javert interjects flatly.

“That man was entirely human, yet I never once thought of him as anything but a monster,” Valjean continues. “Do you understand? Becoming a monster is a choice. It is not inherent. That man made a choice to be cruel, to draw enjoyment from the suffering of others.” Valjean reaches for his hand. “You are not a monster because of your vampirism, Javert. You told me once that you made a choice to become an officer of the law rather than become a criminal. Knowing you were born a vampire now, I can only assume you turned your back on your coven in order to make your own path.”

“I had no coven,” Javert informs him. “My mother was human and made a living selling herself and reading cards. I can only imagine how displeased she was to find her son cursed from birth.”

“Even so,” Valjean says. “I was terrified of you for so many years, but never once did I think of you like you think of yourself. If I must tell you so for the rest of my days, then so be it. I will.”

Some unknowable expression flashes over Javert’s face too quick for Valjean to read it. “And for the hurts I committed against you?” he asks.

Valjean tries to smile at him. He is afraid he fails. “I forgave you for that a long time ago. It is in the past and neither of us can change that.”

Javert’s lips press into a thin, unhappy line, but he does not disagree.

“Are we— Is this alright?” Valjean asks nervously. “I know you said that I am yours, and I would understand if you do not reciprocate in quite the same way, but I would... very much like it if I could love you more freely in private like this.”

Javert blinks. “Pardon?”

“I, ah,” Valjean stutters, feeling very foolish. “I was quite serious when I said I wanted you to stay. It would bring me no greater joy than to fall asleep and wake up next to you every day, your snuffbox under the pillow and all.”

“You would want that?”

“I do want that, but not if it would make you uncomfortable,” Valjean tells him, fearful of his answer. He does not know if he wants Javert to accept or decline.

Javert’s chin drops into his cravat, his hand pulling at his whiskers. He does not speak for several long moments in silent thought. Valjean looks down at their hands, feeling breathless at the sight of them touching. How ridiculous he is! He is not a young man, has not been one in a very long time. He should not be so happy to simply touch hands with another. Even so, he smiles when Javert allows him to interlock their fingers.

“You are ridiculous,” Javert mutters. “Foolish.”

Valjean can’t help but smile, ducking his head in embarrassment.

“I have never understood why you did not run when you found me out,” Javert says. “Anyone else would have killed me and I would have welcomed it.”

“Javert—”

“I am not finished,” Javert interrupts. He squeezes Valjean’s hand as he says it and Valjean forgets why he was upset. “You set me free and I did not understand. When we met at the entrance to the sewers, you were not afraid.”

“I was very much afraid,” Valjean tells him. “I was sure you were going to arrest me.”

Javert huffs. “The night was long. You were exhausted and not in your right mind. Yet you did not run and willingly got into a fiacre with me.”

Valjean remembers very little about that night, but Javert is right. He did not hesitate before getting into the fiacre with a known vampire, too concerned about Marius’s health to notice.

“I do not understand how you can trust me so,” Javert says. “I have done unspeakable things to you. I have made your life Hell. Yet you forgive me. You trust me beyond measure when I have never given you reason to.”

“You have always given me reason to trust you,” Valjean tells him. “You are an honest and loyal man. Deception is not in your nature.”

Javert’s mouth twists. “And yet I have lied all my life.”

“You had to,” Valjean says. “I do not blame you for that. How can I? I know what it is like to live my life in hiding, Javert. If you have any other secrets you wish to tell me, I will not judge you for them.”

Javert looks away again. “I do not understand how you can look at me like that. Like I am some normal, human man and not a vampire. I may not have chosen this, but this curse has driven me to feed on innocents. How can I be forgiven for that?”

“You did what you had to,” Valjean assures him. “I forgive you for that. God will forgive you for that.”

Javert snorts. “God has never looked upon creatures like me with kindness.”

“God loves everyone, every being on this earth,” Valjean tells him. “Even vampires, even you. Why else would you be able to heal me? If God did not smile upon you, then why do you keep your mind? Even sane werewolves go mad when the moon is full, yet as long as you are fed, you never will.”

“The fae keep their minds.”

“Do they?” Valjean asks. “The fae keep to themselves, but I have never heard of an account where one of the fae were sane by human standards.”

Javert’s mouth twists unhappily.

Valjean squeezes his hand. “Is it really so hard to believe that you are not damned?”

“Yes,” Javert says. “Everything I have known is contrary to what you say. I do not know what to believe.”

“Think on it,” Valjean tells him. “Is that your only objection to my admission? That you are a vampire?”

“That should be the only objection you need,” Javert mutters. “I could kill you.”

“Yes,” Valjean says simply. “So could another vampire. So could anyone with enough dedication. I could die crossing the street, run down by a carriage. I could slip and fall in the bath.” Valjean smiles. “As dear to me as you are, Javert, you are not the only thing that could kill me.”

Javert takes back his hand from Valjean’s grasp to brush his bangs back out of his eyes. “Well,” he says. “Now I will only worry more.”

He hesitates, then reaches out to run his fingers through Valjean’s hair and cupping the back of his head.

“Is that your only objection?” Valjean asks again, unable to stop himself from smiling at Javert’s action.

“I do not understand why or how you could possibly,” he stumbles, unable to voice the word, “feel that for me. Vampirism aside, I am not a pleasant person. Are you quite sure you wish to saddle yourself with me?”

“Yes, quite sure,” Valjean answers.

“Even when you could do better than a bitter vampire playing at being human?”

“What if what I want a bitter vampire playing at being human?”

Javert shakes his head. “You are impossible.”

Then he kisses him. It is all the answer Valjean could want.

“I need to wrap your neck again,” Javert mutters against Valjean’s lips.

“It can wait just a moment,” Valjean insists.

“You stupid, foolish human—”

“ _Your_ stupid, foolish human.”

“Mine,” Javert says, soft and possessive and wonderous. He pulls back abruptly, shaking his head as if to remove the softness from his expression. “Stop distracting me.”

Valjean is helpless to stop himself from smiling.

Javert mutters meaningless complaints under his breath while he rewraps Valjean’s neck, hands not quite as gentle as Cosette’s but somehow even more careful.

“I will not break so easily, Javert,” Valjean tells him with amusement.

“That does not mean I should not be careful with you.”

Valjean’s smile fades. “Do you… not want someone you do not have to be so careful around? I am old; do you not want someone young—”

“You are being foolish,” Javert reprimands him. “Do you think just anyone can change me? Do you think it is easy to find anyone to accept a vampire trying to pass as human?”

“There must be others like you,” Valjean says. “Other vampires who live as humans do.”

Javert snorts derisively, tying off the bandage. He puts his hands on either side of Valjean’s face, forcing him to look at him. “You are the only one I could ever think of speaking to so honestly. The only one I dare show my true nature to. I do not want for anyone else, human or otherwise.”

“Are you sure?” Valjean asks. “I do not require you to return my affections—”

“Of course I return them!” Javert snaps. His hands drop from Valjean’s face and he stands to pace the length of the bed. “You think too little of yourself. I am starting to believe you always have.”

Valjean winces.

Javert huffs. “We will talk later. You need to rest.”

“I am not so frail that I—”

“Jean.”

Valjean abruptly quiets. It has been a very long time since anyone called him by his given name. He likes how it sounds on Javert’s tongue, even as annoyed as he is.

“I dislike it when you doubt my devotion to you, so stop doing so,” Javert says. “Rest. I will wake you for lunch. Your daughter should be back by then.”

His strength is waning irritatingly quickly, but Valjean does not want to sleep just yet. “Will you stay?”

“Obviously. Someone must supervise you in case you decide to do more foolish things.”

“Will you kiss me again?”

Javert sighs and rolls his eyes. “You were never this needy before.” He kisses Valjean anyway, his lips soft and lingering.

“Thank you,” Valjean says, his eyes closing shut.

“You should not thank me.”

“Mm,” Valjean disagrees sleepily. “Thank you, Javert.”

He falls asleep with Javert’s hand in his own.


End file.
